i like reading my thoughts after i think them.

listen UP, love.

it’s like when she’s talking to some guy with an Italian accent: every single word sounds exotic and exciting and romantic and worldly and promising and poetic and perfect. he could be reading from a textbook or talking crap about her family and it’ll still tickle her eardrums and play with her heart. is he really professing his innermost affections? or is that just how he effing communicates with everyone else on the planet?

nevertheless, a girl will convince herself that the accent is special—saved only for her, as if he is otherwise silent all day or rhyming with a country twang while away from her. she’ll tell herself that every word she can barely understand is pregnant with passionate metaphorical messages; she’ll read into every intonation, every overarticulation, every long pause and every emoticon that even has a hint of a smile until she finds what she wants to find. the smallest of small talk evolves into the biggest riddle that shouldn’t be solvable since there is no hidden answer to be revealed!

to happily hang on his every word still leaves her dangling well above plenty of room to fall. and get hurt. and sink lower and lower with every word he doesn’t say afterwards. and though it’s hard to hear anything he says just as he really does mean it—rid of romantic intentions of any kind—it’s better to face that fact sooner rather than later, when everyone suddenly sounds like they’re speaking straight up Italian and she feels like the last single girl in the universe.