Suppositions on impositions.

I wonder why you don't like Jack Johnson, and why you keep encouraging me to smoke. Do you like how I look when I smoke? It's only once a week. Tomorrow's the day.

Did you kept saying, "I should go", because you didn't want to annoy me... or, more likely that you really did want to go. Maybe I disgust you a little.

It just kills me, la petite mort, to think of running a finger down your shoulder. I jumped when you laid your head so close it was almost next to mine, black and red together. We might have looked like children together, you and I, another of our own little jokes.

Or even if you realised that your foot kept tapping mine, or that I edged a bit closer to you on purpose. I might even like it that you breathe heavily when you read, it's just you.

That it wasn't a quizzical look when you threw yourself onto my bed, it was just me, thinking how nice it was.

When you left I huddled into the place that you were.

And I laugh more when you're around.

I like that we're agnostic and sit in churchyards to eat.

It's pathetic that I worry that doing anything about this would sour it because I worry that I've overhyped you to myself. I know that there are things about you that annoy me... but when we are together I seem to tease them away, when we are on our own anyway.