Untitled.
We had many titles, me + you.
Many different names and labels for the way we moved and the ways in which we existed.
We called ourselves crazy.
We called ourselves wild,
You called me Bonnie,
I called you Clyde.
You said I was the best you'd ever known,
I called you my favorite thing.
You're an idiot.
You're insane.
You're perfect.
I need you.
Don't ever change.
Your beautiful creature,
My favorite pair of hands around my throat.
But,
for everything we were,
there were just as many things we were not.
We were not friends.
We'd spill our darkest secrets to each other,
curled up together,
your bed,
middle of the night -
but friends do not undress you twelves times a week.
Friends do not inch their fingers up your skirt,
back row at the cinema.
Friends do not wash your hair 7am before work,
hung over as hell,
pressed together in a tiny bathtub.
Friends do kiss you goodnight and fuck you good morning.
I remember your house parties,
music too loud,
and your friends would ask if I was girlfriend yet.
"No" you'd say,
but you'd smile that crooked half-smile you do,
your feet nudging mine,
and wink at me.
Later,
with my hands pinned above my head,
you'd kiss my throat and tell me I was so, so much more.
I guess you never wanted titles because without a title,
it made it easier for you to pretend that none of this would hurt when it came to an end.
"But you see, the problem is just this...
When you never truly begin, you can never truly end, either."
You call me up drunk,
I come running.
I burn my bridges with you only to walk through the ash once more.
You run into me in the middle of the street and your hands are on my face and you're screaming at strangers,
"I fucking love this girl and I'm going to fucking touch her tonight, are you jealous?!"
You're texting me you can't do this.
I'm standing outside your house,
leaning against my car,
crying and crying and crying.
I feel like it could be 10 years from now and I'd be happily married,
and you'd knock at my door and i'd be dropping everything,
finding your fingers ,
"Come on Bonnie, let's do this once more."
We had many titles, me + you.
Many different names and labels for the way we moved and the ways in which we existed.
We called ourselves crazy.
We called ourselves wild,
You called me Bonnie,
I called you Clyde.
You said I was the best you'd ever known,
I called you my favorite thing.
You're an idiot.
You're insane.
You're perfect.
I need you.
Don't ever change.
Your beautiful creature,
My favorite pair of hands around my throat.
But,
for everything we were,
there were just as many things we were not.
We were not friends.
We'd spill our darkest secrets to each other,
curled up together,
your bed,
middle of the night -
but friends do not undress you twelves times a week.
Friends do not inch their fingers up your skirt,
back row at the cinema.
Friends do not wash your hair 7am before work,
hung over as hell,
pressed together in a tiny bathtub.
Friends do kiss you goodnight and fuck you good morning.
I remember your house parties,
music too loud,
and your friends would ask if I was girlfriend yet.
"No" you'd say,
but you'd smile that crooked half-smile you do,
your feet nudging mine,
and wink at me.
Later,
with my hands pinned above my head,
you'd kiss my throat and tell me I was so, so much more.
I guess you never wanted titles because without a title,
it made it easier for you to pretend that none of this would hurt when it came to an end.
"But you see, the problem is just this...
When you never truly begin, you can never truly end, either."
You call me up drunk,
I come running.
I burn my bridges with you only to walk through the ash once more.
You run into me in the middle of the street and your hands are on my face and you're screaming at strangers,
"I fucking love this girl and I'm going to fucking touch her tonight, are you jealous?!"
You're texting me you can't do this.
I'm standing outside your house,
leaning against my car,
crying and crying and crying.
I feel like it could be 10 years from now and I'd be happily married,
and you'd knock at my door and i'd be dropping everything,
finding your fingers ,
"Come on Bonnie, let's do this once more."