stop making the eyes at me and i'll stop making the eyes at you

but the thing that surprises me is i don't really want you to. it's a day of 'i bet you look good on the dancefloor' on repeat because it's the ambivalence and terror and sass and flicker of excitement eating through your veins. the god-i-miss-you feeling that crushes you like a freak wave but leaves you untouched and shaken five minutes later. the sheer recklessness of to-hell-with-it that usually wears off like perfume, but what does it mean when it clings to you for days, no longer on your skin but melding into it. and secretly you like it, the way it holds your hand and lets you walk the tightrope edge, with that dangerous smile saying you'll have to find out if your parachute works all on your own, princess. and then in the moment, the only one that matters, you become icarus or peter pan, or you become atlas always wondering what if.