And 8, and 9, and 10.

A pink and purple pen.

When I think of you, I think about your smile, your eyes, your lips; the sound of your laughter, the sound of your voice, the funny little noises that you make. I think about how it feels to hold you, to put my arm around your waist, to hug you, to hug you tighter, to feel like lifting you up and carrying you about; to hold your hand, and such simple things; to touch your skin, and keep you warm – even though you’re the one who radiates heat. I think about your scent, and how you always manage to smell nice. I think about Penhaligon's, and a mental list of all the things you've ever said you like or dislike. The way your face crinkles when you smell something bad. The mental snapshot of your face lit by the cinema half-light after I first kissed you, the way you looked so young, so innocent…so vulnerable (and how I wondered what you were thinking). I think about the way your persona changes when you turn on your intellect, the assumption of easy seriousness and strength, the depth of knowledge that tells in your eyes, and how it sometimes seems you want to hide this facet of yourself. I think about the way you always punch me or kick me, and wonder why you like abusing me so much.

I think about how you make me feel. I think about how I don’t think I’ve felt the same way about you as I’ve felt about another girl, and how I don’t know how to describe it. I think about how I sometimes feel out of my depth when I’m with you, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or bad. I think about how I get so easily distracted when I’m doing my work and your messages come in. How I have to push you out of my mind sometimes just to be able focus on something else. How I feel like I don’t want to lose you, but yet not even have you in the first place.

I think about what our circle of friends would think, and how the group dynamics might change, or not.

I think about how you're probably thinking about many of the same things.

I think about the (not many) things we have in common.

I think about all the different maybes we might become, by next year.

I think about you, and the difference between love and infatuation.

I think about how I feel so jaded of relationships, and whether this has changed.

I think about the perils of over-thinking, and reading too much into it all.

I think about taking pictures of you, and how it actually sounds quite perverted to say that I’m
thinking about it.

I think about how you might feel about me.


And how the list could go on, but for self-censorship.

rainbows in the sunset