I went from being indifferent towards you, liking you, falling for you, then hating your fucking guts.
Distance can make you crave them even more.
Their absence after such a beautiful moment can drive you mad.
Withdrawal symptoms can be a bitch.
We dance around each other with polite smiles and perfunctory "how's it going"s - the familiar language of white collar workers. Our conversations are brief, focused - you are after all a busy man, and I am nothing if not efficient. There is no idle chit chat, no talk of our lives outside the 9 to 5, no parts of our identity revealed beneath the impenatrable armor of crisp white shirts and collared silk blouses.
But there is no rhyme or reason to the way my heart stutters when I talk to you, the way my eyes catch on the lines of your retreating figure, the way my mind analyzes our every interaction in excrutiating detail, wondering if that tiny tremor in your voice or hint of color in your cheek was simply a figment of my overactive imagination.
You will never know this, of course.
We are, the both of us, professional to a fault. And though I may not know you well (or at all), I do know this -
this is not the hill that we will choose to die on.
---Carousel
She looks like the type of chick to stomp her feet and pull her hair out when she doesn’t get her way.
When did you get so many other coats? I've seen you wearing two others I have never seen before this week alone. And yes, I do always notice what you wear, not in a bad way but simply because I find you fascinating and wonderful
“I am the poet because of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.” — Ovid
Chem M.D