i lose myself in his eyelashes, the balance of dullness and sparkle in his eyes
and the syllabus of a language that i do not quite understand
the way that graphic tees and ripped jeans hang loosely off his broad shoulders
he asks me over risotto and mushroom soup,
"so what do you like about me; am i just a rebound?"
i don't tell him about the list; i hide behind hangover-induced excuses

I don't tell him I like the way he puts his arm around me
don't tell him the significance of our fingers interwining
my body is a car, alarms ringing every time someone stands a foot too close
but the fire in my lungs somehow quiet down when I have an arm around his waist
and he has fingers running through my hair
his voices soothes the storms that threaten to pull me under,
pulls me out of the times I breath too hasty

i tell him many things, but not the things that matter

i think its easier to figure it out, it being another word for him
easier to love the smell of cigarettes that cling onto him in dull beige wallpapers
easier to love the songs he raves to after lunch, fingers in the air
the way he downs shots and has a lit cigarette at the same time

"this is me, this is my lifestyle,"
i'm lost for a good moment, contemplating between 
"i know", "i don't care", "it doesn't matter" and every other synonym along the same lines.
I know the right answer, I just cannot ever find the right words