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If I hadn't told you about my feelings, I wonder if it didn't have to be like this. I would have never thought that we would become so remote - without cause nor reason. Before, we would talk through the night, revealing in turn some great secret we'd harbored. You would call me the best person that you knew - I would title you my favourite. And we would enjoy any excuse to stand closer, sit nearer - listen closely to the words leave each other's lips like a rite of passage. Now, you whisper when you talk, mumble and groan the words aloud - and when I ask for a repeating, shake your head as if to imply that your words weren't for me. Now you pass me by shyly, making those eyes at me that I'm not sure you mean.
I'm yours, granted, in the sick way I know best. I buy you the coffees, bring the extra ibuprofen and save you the last gulp of my water in case you haven't slept that night. Walk you to your bus stop with nothing to say but slight remark on the cars I pretend I'm interested in. I follow your footsteps closely, make sure the pothole in the road is gracefully avoided - put my arm faithfully in front of you when we cross the road because I appreciate the fact you're not a solid crosser. All for that excess second, excess touch - where I believe that we can be honest with each other. And God, I try. I vye for your attention by immaturising as a person, settling on posting Tim Buckley songs to my instagram story notes - like a child. I encourage your brilliance, cherish it. Tell you, all the time. That you're the sweetest thing that has ever lived. That you're all the girl for me.
You told me that you like me, but do you care? I've been rolling aimlessly around in this indecisive pit of despair - picking petals off of flowers playing she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not... Asking my horoscopes when you'll be happiest, wearing my lucky socks whenever I know we'll see each other - fitting my retainers the night before. Patrolling the park we sat on your eighteenth birthday, hounding the grass nearby for a dandelion, pleading for the wish that you would wake up today and realise that for me, it's you - and that it's me for you too. That we could be something together, that there's no reason to be nothing.
And no, I don't mean to bring it up. I don't mean to test you in this already trying time but you haven't spoken to me in a week - though if we weed out the small talk and generic polite gestures we each feel obliged to act out for the other, then it's been months. And I just want you to give me something or nothing at all. Tell me I'm yours or anybody else's. Show me that it's this - you and me - or that, me and endless possibilities. Either I walk, or you're walking out with me; either way I'm going. So, in the words of the great Jazz aficionado, Chet Baker: Is you or ain't you my baby?
You're it for me. I'd be happy to spend my life saying needless sorries to you; it would be my pleasure to talk about what drear policies your floor manager imposed, the next colour you'll dye your hair, where to first on your travel list. And we'd count our days, sure - but I'd let you do that since you find it endearing that I'm so bad at maths. I don't know why, I don't know when - but it happened like this. So, I want it to happen a different way, which is the way that I can see it. I can see you and me, happy and together. Nobody else, just us. Our drab ambitions or dreams, whichever you prefer. Loving each other.
Yours,
M.
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