This is not a love letter

Last night, as I was about to fall asleep, I thought of you. Not because I miss you and not because I’m in love with you, but because there is something about you that won’t leave me alone. It’s annoying, really. I don’t want to be thinking of you and I definitely don’t want to be in bed thinking of you. But there I was, in nothing but my underwear wrapped up in my white sheets thinking about your sheets. The ones with the space pattern that are unusually soft. Your laundry place must use some great softener, because there is no chance in hell you do your own laundry. They’re very ugly, but I like them. I’m sure that’s why you have them, to charm the girls. They don’t fit into your room of old posters and groupie souvenirs and big black boots. They are your ass tattoo. That extra you leave in someone’s mind after having sex with them.

I remembered that one time when I came to your place and it was pouring out. You had kissed me outside the bar and I had told you not to smile so much. I can’t take it when you smile like that. It makes my knees weak and my heart warm in a way I don’t feel comfortable with. You left to get dinner, but later that night I took a cab over to your place even though it’s a ten minute walk away. You came down to get me, wearing your adidas track pants and black hoodie. We made out in the elevator, riding three floors up.

We got stoned and watched half an episode of Arrested Development.

Then we had sex in your space sheets.

I don’t miss you. I’m not in love with you. I consider you more of a friend who I can escape to when I want to get out of my own head. Maybe it’s because I’m so far away now and there is so much going on in my head and I have nowhere to escape to.

I hate that I think of you in bed wearing nothing but my underwear.

 

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