don’t get any ideas

I don’t fall in love with people; I fall in love with ideas.

 

I liked the idea of dating you. The dates we went on in my mind, the libraries and cafés and rainy days we stayed in, the nights we spent drinking liqueur at the beach.

 

I liked kissing you in the dark hallways of my head, dim lights coming through the windows and picture frames of your brothers knocking against my back as your tongue maps out the geography of my mouth.

 

I liked hearing the rain pit-pat against the tin roof of your room from the warmth of your bed, the coffee pot beeping and you, turning over in the sheets and wrapping your arms around my waist. Cold coffee and toast for breakfast it is. We’d watch marathon episodes of some show on your laptop and you’d fall asleep on my shoulder. You never could survive extended periods of laziness.

 

I liked listening to you play guitar, your hands plucking and strumming while I read a book, the wind howling outside. Your voice would occasionally hum a melody, and you’d never remember, but I’d never forget. You’d look over at me from time to time, fingers continuing on their own without the guidance of your eyes, and the humming would stop for a while. I’ve long given up on asking.

 

I liked going out to concerts and parties with you, seeing our friends and dancing in small rooms with too many people. We’d adjourn as the night wore on, to someone’s house with an armchair and a rug and a cat, and we’d listen to our friends pour their hearts out and play vinyls and sing along. We spent those evenings quietly, your curls against my cheek and my back against your chest. I never brought a jacket when I needed it, and you’d borrow one to drape over my shoulders. I’d toy with the edges of your pullover sleeves, and you’d chuckle, even though you do it too. I’ve seen it when you can’t figure something out and your forehead creases in two places and your eyes turn weary.

 

I liked the idea of you, until I felt the stubble on your chin graze against my neck in the stairwell and my skin screams that I’ve made another mistake.

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