It's like when you told me I was "quite a dancer". It's a compliment on the good days, but sometimes I think you're just another douchebag that wasn't quite sure what to say.
So here you are telling me that you like me because I'm "somethin' else". Your eloquence knows no bounds. You're a regular William fuckin' Shakespeare.
Sometimes I wish you words were flowers, and each petal that fell delicately out of your mouth was an effort to describe to me how truly, despairingly, quintessentially fantastic I am. I wish your words were candies, sweet little nuggets that I could roll around on my tongue while the happy centers in my brain light up before the sweetness dissolves.
But that's not your way. You love me with your eyes, with your arm around my shoulders. Words have always been my medium of expression - I'm a regular bulimic when it comes to word vomit. You're about as talkative as a fence post (but just as good a listener).
I think you know what I'd like from you - I'd like to hear it just once. But you'll never say it, will you?
Does that make it less true?
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