Sunday, 8 May 2011

Dear, You;

Sometimes I look at you and wonder what it's like to kiss you. I wonder whether you're a slow, passionate kisser, or a more urgent one. I wonder whether you'd cup my face, or your hands would trace my skin, along my shoulder, down my back. Sometimes I wonder whether, when I'm looking at you thinking, 'You're so perfect' the way you look back at me is telling me the exact same thing.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'd met you first you'd be di
fferent around me. Like you don't feel this need to push me away when he's around, and if you'd treat me differently.

Sometimes I wish I could just tell you that whenever you brush past me, or touch my back, or tease me playfully, you give me goosebumps. And it's in those moments, there and then, that I want to turn round and just tell you, I like you, so much. When you ask me whether you look ugly today, I say yes because you never do, not even when you're hungover, and tired and look like a disheveled koala bear. I guess Freud and his reverse psychology psychobabble were spot on, so kudos to you, Sigmund.

And the most fucked up part is that you'll never know, because I'll never tell you just how much I like you. Partly because I know you'd push me away, even if you liked me. And secondly because I don't think I could handle the rejection if you did, because deep down, I think you do feel the same, and I don't want that shattered.

So, Dear You, if I were to ever tell you something, then it'd be this:

I could fall for a guy like you.

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