Women always long for a concrete form of love—to be loved for the way her hair falls when she crouches to feed a stray cat; for someone to taste the sweetness and salt of her tears when she reads Borges at night; to gaze at her political stance and wonder why she has watched that old movie thirty times.Yet, they always approach you for your looks, indifferent to your thoughts, the films you cherish, or the music you live by. They put no heart into nurturing 'you.' They only want to lift your clothes and kiss your skin. You say, 'The moon is beautiful tonight,' and he asks, 'Do you have to go home?'
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Women always long for a concrete form of love—to be loved for the way her hair falls when she crouches to feed a stray cat; for someone to taste the sweetness and salt of her tears when she reads Borges at night; to gaze at her political stance and wonder why she has watched that old movie thirty times.Yet, they always approach you for your looks, indifferent to your thoughts, the films you cherish, or the music you live by. They put no heart into nurturing 'you.' They only want to lift your clothes and kiss your skin. You say, 'The moon is beautiful tonight,' and he asks, 'Do you have to go home?'
音楽の星
