Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Fuck.
I miss his smile. The silly toothiness that said, "I'm happy, deal with it". How his face would break out into a grin at the very mention of my name.
Fuck.
I miss his laugh. The laugh that would lighten any situation and make everyone in the area want to join in, or that small, rough, high-pitched giggle often signifying the accidental slip of an inside joke.
Fuck.
I miss his legs. How they felt tucked under him as he sat in my lap. Even the way they felt when he kicked me onstage in the place no guy likes to be kicked. How he would jump up to hug me, wrapping them around my waist because he was that much smaller than me. The way they felt when he would lie next to me, his feet tangled in mine.
Fuck.
I miss his hair! The fact that there was always something else there to run my fingers through after something, or most likely someone, stressed me out.
Fuck.
I miss his voice. A voice that was deep and assertive, but at the same time soft and caring; ready to talk me out of any sort of negative situation.
Fuck.
I miss his eyes. He could say it all with his eyes; the flick of an eyebrow, the confused frown that always made me want to explain the world to him, and the way he could look at me, any shape or form without making me the least bit self-conscious. How anything and everything he felt was involuntarily expressed through his eyes. I could read each emotion, every slight change in thought; happiness, content, sadness, boredom, disappointment, confusion, joy, humor, anger, lust, annoyance, and anything else you could think of.
Fuck.
I miss his smell; the faint odor of cigarettes, pizza, gasoline, and laundry detergent. The smell I inhaled frequently when he wrapped his arms around my neck to hug me.
Fuck.
I miss his hands. The way they felt perfectly fitting in mine. How they had memorized every aspect and imperfection, every bone and tissue of my body, and could move so fluidly over me that one small touch would send a jolt through my brain.
Fuck.
I miss his skin. The tattoos covering his arms and chest that I would trace every night, watching him twitch semi-uncomfortably under my touch. The way it felt against mine, sweaty skin on sweaty skin, whether it be in the silence of hotel rooms, or onstage when he would push up against me while I tried hard to keep the song going. The way he would let me snore into the crook of his neck even when it was almost thirty minutes after we should've gotten up.
.Fuck.
I miss his smile. The silly toothiness that said, "I'm happy, deal with it". How his face would break out into a grin at the very mention of my name.
Fuck.
I miss his laugh. The laugh that would lighten any situation and make everyone in the area want to join in, or that small, rough, high-pitched giggle often signifying the accidental slip of an inside joke.
Fuck.
I miss his legs. How they felt tucked under him as he sat in my lap. Even the way they felt when he kicked me onstage in the place no guy likes to be kicked. How he would jump up to hug me, wrapping them around my waist because he was that much smaller than me. The way they felt when he would lie next to me, his feet tangled in mine.
Fuck.
I miss his hair! The fact that there was always something else there to run my fingers through after something, or most likely someone, stressed me out.
Fuck.
I miss his voice. A voice that was deep and assertive, but at the same time soft and caring; ready to talk me out of any sort of negative situation.
Fuck.
I miss his eyes. He could say it all with his eyes; the flick of an eyebrow, the confused frown that always made me want to explain the world to him, and the way he could look at me, any shape or form without making me the least bit self-conscious. How anything and everything he felt was involuntarily expressed through his eyes. I could read each emotion, every slight change in thought; happiness, content, sadness, boredom, disappointment, confusion, joy, humor, anger, lust, annoyance, and anything else you could think of.
Fuck.
I miss his smell; the faint odor of cigarettes, pizza, gasoline, and laundry detergent. The smell I inhaled frequently when he wrapped his arms around my neck to hug me.
Fuck.
I miss his hands. The way they felt perfectly fitting in mine. How they had memorized every aspect and imperfection, every bone and tissue of my body, and could move so fluidly over me that one small touch would send a jolt through my brain.
Fuck.
I miss his skin. The tattoos covering his arms and chest that I would trace every night, watching him twitch semi-uncomfortably under my touch. The way it felt against mine, sweaty skin on sweaty skin, whether it be in the silence of hotel rooms, or onstage when he would push up against me while I tried hard to keep the song going. The way he would let me snore into the crook of his neck even when it was almost thirty minutes after we should've gotten up.
.Fuck.
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