You'll call me again. I know you will. I just don't know when. You will call and speak to me in a soft voice and try to sound playful. You'll fail. You will ask how I'm doing. You'll remind me we haven't spoken in ages, pout a little like it's my fault. I'll be able to sense it without seeing you. I'll feel it through the phone. If I'll actually tell you anything about how I'm doing, you'll listen to me for a couple of minutes. You'll hum here and there to show that you're listening. I'll know you're not.
Then I'll ask you, 'how about you?' and you'll say it's all fine. I'll know it's not. You never call me when everything is all right. I'll say you don't sound fine and you'll break. You'll start to cry and ask me if I can come over. You know it's late and you feel bad about it but you can't be alone right now, and I'm the only person you can trust. You'll promise me you'll understand if I won't. But you know I'll come over.
I'll knock on your door half an hour later. You'll hug me at the doorstep and say you're so glad I came. You'll offer some tea. I'll ask for coffee. I was on my way to bed when you called and I'm exhausted after a long day's work. We will sit on that ugly couch your landlord left you, and talk for hours. Your stupid furry brown cat will sit on my lap. I'll pet it and wish you'd put your head there so I can pet your hair. Instead you'll lean your head backwards and let your long hair slide on the cushions, untouched.
You'll sob every time you'll try to say the name of the asshole that made you feel like this. You'll say you were sure that he was for real this time. That he was different. You'll say you blame yourself for not having enough control. You'll say when you think back to all the stupid things you've done, you're disgusted with yourself. I'll tell you it doesn't matter. And that you shouldn't take the blame for all the jerks in the world. I'll tell you that no matter what mistakes you may have done in the past; to me you are a beautiful creature, a radiant soul in the darkness. You won't care because you know I mean it. You only seek approval from those who don't.
Then I'll ask you, 'how about you?' and you'll say it's all fine. I'll know it's not. You never call me when everything is all right. I'll say you don't sound fine and you'll break. You'll start to cry and ask me if I can come over. You know it's late and you feel bad about it but you can't be alone right now, and I'm the only person you can trust. You'll promise me you'll understand if I won't. But you know I'll come over.
I'll knock on your door half an hour later. You'll hug me at the doorstep and say you're so glad I came. You'll offer some tea. I'll ask for coffee. I was on my way to bed when you called and I'm exhausted after a long day's work. We will sit on that ugly couch your landlord left you, and talk for hours. Your stupid furry brown cat will sit on my lap. I'll pet it and wish you'd put your head there so I can pet your hair. Instead you'll lean your head backwards and let your long hair slide on the cushions, untouched.
You'll sob every time you'll try to say the name of the asshole that made you feel like this. You'll say you were sure that he was for real this time. That he was different. You'll say you blame yourself for not having enough control. You'll say when you think back to all the stupid things you've done, you're disgusted with yourself. I'll tell you it doesn't matter. And that you shouldn't take the blame for all the jerks in the world. I'll tell you that no matter what mistakes you may have done in the past; to me you are a beautiful creature, a radiant soul in the darkness. You won't care because you know I mean it. You only seek approval from those who don't.
But mostly, you'll talk and I'll listen. You'll rub your left arm or poke at the growing hole in the sofa. You'll bite your lower lip from time to time, when you feel a little embarrassed. I'll just pet your cat and stare admiringly at you like a sick puppy. I won't even listen anymore after a while. I won't have to. I've heard this story a thousand times before already. What am I supposed to tell you? That you should be with someone who admires you? Someone who adores every little thing about you? Every little wrinkle that appears under your eyes when you laugh? Every little bite of the lower lip? Someone like me? You know how I feel about you. But you don't want me. Not as a lover, at least. You want me only as a friend, as a shoulder to cry on. I know that.
I'll come over all the same. I'll come over every time you need me. Even after I'll promise myself that I won't. I just can't see you suffer. So I come over to take the pain and suffer instead. I guess I'm just like you after all. I want you because you don't want me. If you did, maybe I wouldn't be waiting for you to call me again.
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