Why do I allow you to hold my clammy hands and let you tell me it doesn’t matter? Why do I volunteer to entertain you with something I’ve learnt? Are we so open that we cross? Me and you- we merge. Or do we want the same things? Like, a hand to hold. A face to wake up to.
“You make me want to be cute”.
Does it matter that it’s me though? Doesn’t it just feel right to let the actions carry us before thought and ration make their statements?
But I like who I am when I take a swig of your beer. When I tell you a story of an underwater dome so that you may fall asleep. I like telling you stories. I like that self. Because I like the moment we’ve created.
There was no buildup, no awkward introduction. Just me on the floor, legs crossed and you on the bed. We like those who think we’re lovely without even trying. I am me and there is no filter. I want to adore someone. I think you do too.
I want to remember your voice. Your goofy grin. When you close your eyes or look up to hum. Mmm- between phrases. It’s the link between sentences. I remember your freckles, where your chest is. Yaanoee (that’s how you say ‘you know’)? The way you inhale deeply. Your rounded handwriting on the post-its: the words you live by. But I’ve already forgotten your laugh. The sound of it is missing from the playback. I need to remember before there’s nothing left. I miss the jolt when your hand was on my spine. We are so funny together.
We were making plans. Yoga, beach, fake IDS… take me to these places with you. This was nice.