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Fall in love with a soul.

Fall in love with the words that come unceremoniously from his lips in the silence, and not the overly rehearsed lines he heard on a TV show, once. Fall in love with the scars beneath the surface, not the walls he built to hide them. Fall in love with his favorite shirt, not the way he looks in a dapper tux. Idiots look good in tuxes. Assholes look good in tuxes. Men that can’t articulate the poems that set your soul on fire but love the way your ass looks rounder in yoga pants also look good in tuxes, but their souls and yours are not the same.

It’s the same pattern; those men, those boys, they always end up single at thirty making the same mistakes they did when they were twenty, choosing girls that are still hungry because these girls continue to feed on empty, tux-wearing, wordless boys. And the girls that finally satiated their thirst, that understand that the boys in tuxes only disappoint, those girls found men who could look at their souls and not be burned by their brightness. They found men to worship them like the sun. Not for their round asses and numb submission, but for their words and their stories and their souls.


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