You fit like a pair of broken high-tops
Well worn,
Lived in.
I have memorised you like all the lines on my criss-crossing laces.
You worry that we are falling apart,
Fret over fraying edges and fading logos,
Try desperately to figure out to tie the laces just so to keep the drooping lid up.
You are shoes worn on hangover days
On don’t get dressed days,
Days that feel like running to the shop on a crisp winters morning
and returning to a kitchen
That smells of cinnamon.
We are not shoes worn for best,
And this worries you.
Because you don’t see what I see -
That there’s enough life left in these shoes
To keep them going for another year.
You are so busy focusing on the split seams
That you Forget to look at the fabric they’re holding together.
Because yes, work shoes are presentable,
And party shoes are daring,
But comfy shoes fit best
And I’d rather not slip my feet
Into any pair other than us.

 
 
 
 
 
 

It's really weird that I'm infatuated with you, even though I don't know you. Sorry if this sounds creepy, but I am :/ (from Anonymous)