In a week or two.

Your skin is so soft and I feel guilty for washing my hands after touching you.

But this is who I am.

I’m afraid. You know, I keep seeing these dreams. I die. I always die.

 So young.

And you won’t be my savior. I know that.

This is why I prefer to smell the soup on my hands than your perfume.

If you do nothing for me, I won’t do something for you.