London Boy

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I dare say I missed you. That I have been missing you of late.

I still remember your silhouette, how your neck is at an angle when you sleep, that there is pointlessness in me creeping around the room because you don’t seem to wake to sounds. We have not taken any pictures. You bought me a very un-London-ish dinner; I was delighted. You said I am mellow, you couldn’t believe how mellow I am and you loved it. Why are these thoughts running randomly through my mind? I remember the oddest details – the texture of your carpet, the stack of books by the wall and how you collect soft toys that have been abandoned on sidewalks (you probably don’t know that soft toys are my biggest weakness and comfort), that we kiss in your kitchen and I love how you smelt, I like, too, how your flat smacks near the middle of grey London. We watch the TV and I couldn’t stop laughing at how you allow yourself to pass time watching trash; you pull me closer to you and say something sweet, I smile and we kiss again. How do I resist your demeanor?

You tell me that I have problem; a dozen things run across my mind wondering what could have possibly ticked you off so soon but all you say is that I snore too loud. I laugh, stopping myself before I ask you to deal with it. I have always wondered what is it about you that attracted me so, that made me text you non-stop and sleep a few hours later because of the damned time zone. I wished you have called more often but I have learnt to stop demanding of such things during a courtship – instead I focus on the little things like the size of your hands and their warmth at the small of my back as you nudge me closer to you. I still don’t understand why you need such a big place for yourself but life is always filled with questions and I don’t always need answers. When you flew to Turkey for that much awaited vacation, I waited in trepidation for 3 days before you texted. Wifi isn’t supplied 24/7 there. I heave a relief and chastise myself for waiting for you.

Couldn’t you tell I panicked? Is this lust or love, an ideal perhaps, attraction or even anything remotely real? How do I tell? I paint pretty pictures of you and I but at the stroke that matters most, I didn’t make it happen. It shouldn’t happen and I feel justified that I have denied this LDR because really, I miss you but I am afraid of missing you even more in future. So I stopped.

And I am picking up the pieces again. This time it is less painful, this time I am less attached and this time, everything feels less real.

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