I like the way we laugh, lights on sleep-eyed. I like the way this is so comfortable. Comfortable like my oldest pair of sweatpants, like that couch we swore was magic, like sleeping in your own bed after being away. Like wet hair, no make-up, brushing my teeth in front of you comfortable. It’s the way moments that should be awkward are just funny instead, the way your arms around my body remind me of the covers on my bed, the way we touch and sometimes it sparks and sometimes it melts.
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
“I’d work in a flower shop and be insecure. And he’d work in real estate…and there’s always cupcake batter on my face, and I’m like, ‘I just made these cupcakes, but I don’t know how I feel!’ And he’s like, ‘Let me get that cupcake batter off your face… with my dick. Cut to me giving him a hand job. Sorry, I’ve had too much caffeine.”—
"i saw a guy on bart who looked exactly like tommy… he was hispanic and ambiguous looking and beautiful. or maybe he didn’t look that much like tommy, i don’t know. i havent seen him in so long that im starting to see him in other people… i miss him so much"