everything I'd say to you if I could
I wonder if, when we caught eyes— and mine averted yours as soon as ours met— I wonder if it was then that you realised I kind of liked you? In that small moment, it all felt much longer than a pause. And since then I’ve been lingering in every other moment we have together. And I think you’ve noticed that too, because you don’t linger like you used to— not for as long. Which makes me think that you know. If you know what I mean?
I like writing your name in my diary. Spelling it out one letter at a time, printing it in something I own. It makes me feel important; knowing that during your week, there’s a time you’ve allocated to spend (specifically) with me. And so, I was wondering what you think of when you write my name in your diary (do you write my name in your diary?), or what you’re thinking when you text me back… if there’s the same care and impetus, spelling out each individual letter, then word, then sentence. That same feeling of importance?…
I painted my nails red because you did too,
just to see how much closer we could be...
In your corduroy jacket, leaning in towards me, and hugging yourself; your eyes were open and earnest, and your smile was so fucking cute. I keep thinking of your smile. Replaying the scene in my mind. How all the noise and the chatter in the cafe somehow disappeared. And then; it was just me and you, eyes locked, heart beating. Everything felt right, everything fluid and fitting— for a moment. Just for a moment. A fleeting moment, now bracketed by sadness and impending departure.
I love you.
I hate that moment before departure— when we’re walking to a street corner at the end of a really nice afternoon, and I know that when we reach that corner, I’ll go one way and you’ll go the other. I always try to speed up the conversation (if you haven’t noticed), because all of a sudden I realise I still haven’t spoken to you about all the things I wanted to talk to you about. I wish we could just keep walking and talking. I wish I could be in your presence that little bit longer.
panoptic voyeurism is (to me);
staring at the gap of smooth
skin between your untucked shirt
and black pants. Not perving,