Serious talks make for sweaty palms
and stomach butterflies scared shitless
because they know these walls are wearing thin.
Sarcasm and soul-bearing don’t mix,
I know this, but some habits are hard to break
(I’m trying I swear).

In between raunchy jokes and pathetic smiles
you’ve got me half-believing I-love-you’s—
or at least contemplating its existence.
Does that make me a hypocrite falling into teenage love clichés?
(For once, I don’t have the answer).

Jokes are something to hide I-miss-you’s behind.
You hate that, I know, but I’m tongue-tied and terrified
with how easy I could fall for late night/early mornings in your arms
when I-have-to-go-home is put on hold for Dear-god-you’re-amazing
(thoughts, never spoken words of course).

It’s the little thing called vulnerability and everything it entails,
the voice whispering this might/might not work,
that finds me restless in late nights/early mornings
counting fake stars on cloudy ceilings.

I know its quiet but from this position I can tell
your heart beats out of sync with mine,
and it’s ok ‘cause somehow it works.