Dear Q,
I vowed a few days ago that I wouldn't keep thinking about you and writing about you and that the only way this could go was with me no longer feeling these things for you.
But today you touched my arm when we were talking and laughing and messing around and I realised that I like you way too much for me just to be able to stop feeling things for you, just because I want to.
This realisation was reinforced when you kept looking at me and smirking at me across the room and when you kept brushing past me and looking at me straight in the eye each time you apologised for your 'mistake', smirking slightly.
Damn you're amazing.
'As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it ... I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.' — Hysteria, T.S. Eliot
YOU ARE READING
For Her
RomanceShort passages and letters for her 'But this dedication is for others to read: These private words addressed to you in public.'-T.S. Eliot
