It's when you bought those 2 bars of chocolate on a cold January evening, knowing fully well I was watching my weight but secretly craving sugar, that I decided I was going to write to you. It's what we do best, no? Wear our feelings on our sleeve, and still write these little notes of appreciation.
Maybe you'll never see this (mostly because the last time I wrote for you, your monosyllabic response drove me up the wall, much like a majority of things about you) -- but you're leaving, and going by how I forget most things, I wanted a reminder of this unassuming evening at work, when my affection for you hit my like a lightening bolt on cocaine.
I remember watching you climb up the stairs of the metro station, the first time we met in my city, with your asymmetrical posture and boyish charm, and I remember telling myself, "you can grow a tree on his afro". Later, when you shared a picture of an actual afro you'd grown on that head of yours, I remember laughing for days. You have the most hilarious "I won't laugh, so you can laugh" face, and when you don't try hard enough, you're downright hilarious.
All our stories, debaucheries, nights-of-passion potentially started and ended with alcohol. But you're such a great listener, I find myself telling you things most people don't know. You're a great, great friend, and a horrible person to fall in love with. So that way, I think I've been lucky. But what I realised very soon, was that you're a big, fat softie. When you're 60, I can imagine you sitting with a beer in your cosy apartment, mouthing the dialogues to Notting Hill and then burping in happiness.
You're the most one-dimensional person I know, for a writer. It's baffling, but I see where that comes from. You've shared some dark, layered thoughts with me when we've been stoned on weekend afternoons, in that cosy little room of yours in GK2. Almost as if you chose not to delve deep into your clandestine self, but indulge once in while to shock the living daylights out of us.
You surprise me. I've never rolled my eyes for anyone as much as for you, and yet, I adore you to bits. I have no doubt that when you grow up for real, you'll be a fine, fine man. Also, you're such a well-brought up boy, so good with the older generation.
I remember this one time, after we'd broken up, when I felt like it'd just save us so much trouble if we never decided to get together in the first place. Clearly you and me wanted different things. But I can't stay pissed with you for long. I remember when I once told you I can never say No to you, you nodded nonchalantly and said, "that's okay, because I'll always look out for you," and I believed you. I believe you.
Thank you for entering my life. I have a huge smile on my face right now.
Maybe you'll never see this (mostly because the last time I wrote for you, your monosyllabic response drove me up the wall, much like a majority of things about you) -- but you're leaving, and going by how I forget most things, I wanted a reminder of this unassuming evening at work, when my affection for you hit my like a lightening bolt on cocaine.
I remember watching you climb up the stairs of the metro station, the first time we met in my city, with your asymmetrical posture and boyish charm, and I remember telling myself, "you can grow a tree on his afro". Later, when you shared a picture of an actual afro you'd grown on that head of yours, I remember laughing for days. You have the most hilarious "I won't laugh, so you can laugh" face, and when you don't try hard enough, you're downright hilarious.
All our stories, debaucheries, nights-of-passion potentially started and ended with alcohol. But you're such a great listener, I find myself telling you things most people don't know. You're a great, great friend, and a horrible person to fall in love with. So that way, I think I've been lucky. But what I realised very soon, was that you're a big, fat softie. When you're 60, I can imagine you sitting with a beer in your cosy apartment, mouthing the dialogues to Notting Hill and then burping in happiness.
You're the most one-dimensional person I know, for a writer. It's baffling, but I see where that comes from. You've shared some dark, layered thoughts with me when we've been stoned on weekend afternoons, in that cosy little room of yours in GK2. Almost as if you chose not to delve deep into your clandestine self, but indulge once in while to shock the living daylights out of us.
You surprise me. I've never rolled my eyes for anyone as much as for you, and yet, I adore you to bits. I have no doubt that when you grow up for real, you'll be a fine, fine man. Also, you're such a well-brought up boy, so good with the older generation.
I remember this one time, after we'd broken up, when I felt like it'd just save us so much trouble if we never decided to get together in the first place. Clearly you and me wanted different things. But I can't stay pissed with you for long. I remember when I once told you I can never say No to you, you nodded nonchalantly and said, "that's okay, because I'll always look out for you," and I believed you. I believe you.
Thank you for entering my life. I have a huge smile on my face right now.
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