it doesn't matter what verse sherlock holmes is in: whether it's rdj's flawless representation of victorian!era or benedict's modern how-are-you-real part, i completely adore him.
and don't even get me started on doctor john watson. don't, ugh.
so i have this thing:
So I’m walking right, and she comes right on up. She is dark beauty, all curves and oh, smile that pretty smile, flash those bright green eyes right at me, baby.
And I notice – God, of course I do—but I ignore it because things like this should probably be unnoticed.
I bump into her, feel her smooth-soft-warm (she has on this dress, this dress, it is something real beautiful in the way that it’s not meant to be but she wears it like she ain’t got nothing left but to wear the hell out of this dress) skin, all exposed and pale and like something that I do not know.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” and her voice, see, her voice, that could be what finished it for me. The way that her mouth forms as she speaks to me (she’s speaking to me) and I stand there, stammer, try to not pay attention to the way her too-short dress hikes up, showing her thighs, outer, inner, everything that I shouldn’t want to see as she bends over to pick up my papers.
“I-it’s fine,” except that it very clearly is not.
and then this other thing:
this is how i wanna try to explain
i kind of sometimes
(but damn just sometimes i can’t do this
forver-ever after shit)
think that maybe you might make
all this drama and hassle and pain and
worth it, baby.
but you gotta help me out,
because if you’re not helping and i’m
deadwalking on my feet
what could possibly become of
ooh, and i'm also reading the book, too, which helps.
and also-also: richard siken, holy christ. i want to buy crush, because honestly. i want to carry that perfection around everywhere. seriously, just looking at my attempts at poetry and then his masterpieces makes me want to delete everything. alas.