I ruin everything I have with quiet, desperate tragedies in my own head. Running shaky fingers down faint pencilled lines I have never quite managed to erase, and seeing hazy memories that truly, truly aren't all as close as they seem.
I ruin everything with my falling in love with the things you do.
The quiet slip of your arm around me in a crowd. A secret kiss just inches away from church. Your hand reaching for mine under the table.
Or I ruin things by being in want-
Of you, two minutes before you are due to go.
Of wanting to tell you but being much too devastated with the thought of laying myself out bare.
Of being softer than I dare to admit and desperately, desperately not wanting to be.