You have woken up in his bed every morning for a year. After he persuades himself inside you for the fifth time this hour, you motion to the heap of clothes on the floor. To the shower and the towel. To both your boots and the metro cards on his nightstand. The beckoning day. You are thinking of adding vanilla extract to his pancake batter. Of the places outside his big city window you have not yet seen together. Of twirling his hair in your lap as he says genius and hilarious things in a park somewhere, in the sun. He asks Where do you think you’re going, Miss? And the story does not change.
Megan Falley (via st-dandelion)
