You.

You, with your side switching and your eye-twitching. Your bamboo kiss, my everything. We’re a work in progress; I keep waiting for the day when you wake up and realise that I’m everything you need. Tomorrow? I’m here, playing the waiting game. You spend the night with me. Your careful kisses send me to sleep. And then I wake up, and I remember that it means nothing to you. And then you’re gone. Out of reach. It’s the most perfect pain. Every time our lips click and I’ve never felt so at home. That first night, I told you, “Let’s pretend this never happened.” This is my only regret. I pray every time we’re together; every time you sit in my room with your antibacterial hands and your indifference. I pray that you’ll open up and tell me everything. Your entire life is placed in boxes, but we’re not so easily defined. And I know that scares you. I’m scared too. I’m scared that we’ll lose everything we’ve built together, because even though I made it seventeen years without you, I just can’t remember how. You. And me. There’s one picture of us. And you cover your face. Stop hiding.