Semantics.

He’s this socialite, with his long fingers and thin lips that smirk and laugh and charm their way into your senses. Lips he kisses you with in the shallow baths that you share, the window open and the draft seeping in, percolating into your every pore, until your bodies fight to keep warm (to keep each other warm).

And he’s flawless. And he’s this beautiful fixation.

He’s the most hopeless thing you’ve ever experienced.

And he lives to make you smile.

He’s every-fucking-thing to you.

(And you’ll lose your fucking head to him every time.)