So we walked all the way to your street, got past security, and climbed up to your room. Your place was messy, disorganized, and all-in-all beat up.
Just like you.
But I didn't mind.
Because on your bedside table was a pile of poetry books and on top of your closet was a boombox and I could just imagine you on a lazy Sunday morning, listening to your playlists as you succumb to Faudet's Dirty Pretty Things.
And somehow, at that moment, I had also wished for you to succumb to me in your lazy Sunday mornings. In your pumped-up Friday nights, your glorious Saturday afternoons.
In all your days, Trent. I wish you would succumb to me.
In all your days, I want to be your fuel for life.
In all your days.
But it took us just two.
