I preferred love when our love was blind.
"I'm always happy when I hear from you," he said.
And I'm dangerously tempted by that. I suppose I have always had a soft spot for men who can sing, but singer-songwriter is far worse. There's something covetous in the way you write, and, I admit, I long to be coveted. I am so tired of loving closed-off, quiet introverts from whom I have to pry any insight about feelings. Worse still, fighting for the merest compliment. Fuck that, I'm not eighteen.
But you - you are open, and dramatic. You started telling me that you had always wanted me - but because I wasn't single and my boyfriend liked your music you never tried anything. That made me so uncomfortable, and I didn't know how to reply so I just wouldn't, and we'd not speak for months, rinse, repeat.
And then suddenly last Spring: we drew pictures in the bar and didn't speak at all, and it was almost romantic. It had to happen. And when I woke the next morning there was snow in the window. I thought things would fall into place. After all, you'd always wanted me.
Open eyes and empty hearts, and I know it's going to break.
But you never called. I didn't either. And now once in a while we have a glass of wine, make each other uncomfortable, and then I struggle with the guilt of having wanted to see you at all. I send you messages when I shouldn't and astonish you. I listen to you sing and sometimes (irrationally, for I'm sure you do this often, and I cannot be the first) you sound like the song's about me.
I've got you stuck in my head, little patient tune,
on the window sill, let me make a little room.
and let me hold your voice, till it won't let go
if there's one thing that I've learnt, you never really know.
And I'm dangerously tempted by that. I suppose I have always had a soft spot for men who can sing, but singer-songwriter is far worse. There's something covetous in the way you write, and, I admit, I long to be coveted. I am so tired of loving closed-off, quiet introverts from whom I have to pry any insight about feelings. Worse still, fighting for the merest compliment. Fuck that, I'm not eighteen.
But you - you are open, and dramatic. You started telling me that you had always wanted me - but because I wasn't single and my boyfriend liked your music you never tried anything. That made me so uncomfortable, and I didn't know how to reply so I just wouldn't, and we'd not speak for months, rinse, repeat.
And then suddenly last Spring: we drew pictures in the bar and didn't speak at all, and it was almost romantic. It had to happen. And when I woke the next morning there was snow in the window. I thought things would fall into place. After all, you'd always wanted me.
Open eyes and empty hearts, and I know it's going to break.
But you never called. I didn't either. And now once in a while we have a glass of wine, make each other uncomfortable, and then I struggle with the guilt of having wanted to see you at all. I send you messages when I shouldn't and astonish you. I listen to you sing and sometimes (irrationally, for I'm sure you do this often, and I cannot be the first) you sound like the song's about me.
I've got you stuck in my head, little patient tune,
on the window sill, let me make a little room.
and let me hold your voice, till it won't let go
if there's one thing that I've learnt, you never really know.