Dear you

I wouldn’t call this a crush.

I call this the slow burn of affection. That familiar lilt of my heart when I recognise your name, even more so when it’s you talking to me. The way we fall into our similar patterns like the soft bumps of quilted sheets. The way I pull you in, forming an intimacy among the prying eyes. Excuse me for this streak of exhibitionism, you’ve pulled down my resistance.

I wouldn’t call this a crush.

A crush – enveloping, invigorating, suffocating as it pushes me from edge to edge. But you are not like this. You are inviting, a constant softness to my sharp ridges. The way you close over them, convinced me that I have not always been like this. Like a slather of cool balm on my parched skin. I wouldn’t call this a crush, no.

Uncertainty is the maddening fuel of crushes. But we are as certain as the hours that passed between us. As certain as the punctuation in our sentences as we bid goodbye. Goodbye. No, I wouldn’t call this a crush.

A crush has hope at least. And here we have none but our good graces and slow paces.

Together, we float on, gently but also aimlessly.

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