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  • Sometimes I get sick over you.

    Like when I think about that time I kissed you in the bathroom of a bar and ran away before seeing your reaction.

    Back then, I used to barter with fate. Like, if I got the dart near the bullseye it would mean I should kiss you/you liked me/ we were meant to be together. Of course, there were other deals, and wagers, and temptations that all seemed to go my way. I took them as signs. All I ever looked for with you was a sign.

    I remember your hands were still wet from the faucet when I leaned in and mumbled, “Can I try something?”

    It only lasted a second, like the blink of an eye. But you didn’t blink your eyes – you kept them open, widened with surprise.

    Sometimes I toss and turn over those five seconds that followed my one moment of bravery. I think about what may have happened had I stuck around. What could have continued?

    I think my biggest fear is that you look back on it as nothing. You remember it as a mere momentary drunken lapse in judgement.

    Sometimes I think you don’t remember it at all.

    Sometimes I think about a dream I once had – where you put your hand on my knee. It was the best.

    Sometimes I think you’re an illness I don’t want to cure.
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