You carry me around like the clasp of your favourite sweater saved for those nights when you actually do go out. Face pressed against the glass bouquets of traffic lights / phone vibrations / and other subtleties these are our fingertips. And i know i can be difficult sometimes it is the only way to be. I wish i could take back all of the times i spoke to you like that. Now i'm left sending all of my apologies to the wind (i'm sorry, i am so fucking sorry). You gave me the clasp off of your sweater saying simply "just for luck" which i never really believed in, but somehow i made it through. If it gets inside. If it stabs hearts. Then don't let go.