I worried that maybe it'd be easy

for me to care too much about you. 

So I kept you at an arms length away.

That just didn't work and you were more

than endearing enough to wiggle pass that.

Damn it.

I knew this would happen.

She thinks maybe he's just one of those men that knows how to make a woman smile just so.  Enough to tease her and have her shyly look away.

She fancies that he's the type that takes pleasure in the tinkle of a giggle as he pulls her near. Or maybe it's a choppy guffaw or snort that she let's loose. But he likes it all the same because it's the smile that lingers that shines through. It's all that's remarkably her and no one else in that moment.

She thinks he's the type and maybe just maybe she deserves this sort of sweet attention every once and a  while.

I think I'm infatuated with the idea of you. It certainly doesn't feel like we're friends when we hang out. But maybe that's just me. Or maybe that's because I have yet to let my guard down fully when I'm with you. Or something like that.

I think it's just me though, who's on the side awkwardly toeing the line of attraction I feel. Me, who over thinks things and who's usually good with conversation but horrendous when I feel any sort of attraction towards someone. Me who's usually the type to confront someone I care because- I care. But, also, me who's scared of the potential of caring too much that I get hurt.
Where is the courageous me?

Right now?

Balled up in the corner of my couch- watching golden girls.

I want to unravel you.

You, with the different textures 

of yarn all messily balled into 

a sphere. 

There's a part of me that entertains the fanciful idea of a whimsy sort of romance. A romance that merely throws monotony in the wind. One that would jump into a simple life of lush vineyards in the country side of France.  A romance of wine, cheese, cigarette's, reading, fishing, boat rides, bike rides, and making love. A life of simple pleasures that burns the soul and leaves me trembling in it's wake.

Romance... fanciful shit.

Time

I, most assuredly, need time.

I lack experience in the dating department,

so, please be patient with me.

You're not her type you say.

And yet if I were to sum her, 'type,' up you would be it.

You're on point baby boy.

You've become obsessed to become her elusive 'type'.

And I only wish to say that I'm exaggerating when I say 'obsessed'.

But you are.

You've lost so much weight, to the point that you can even wear my 

loose sweaters comfortably even though I'm five feet tall. 105 pounds.

The things that you merely boast about have become about material 

things.

Losing weight to you now is like a trophy. Your eyes light up when you see that you've lost weight and you've been looking sickly. You control your calorie intake and it's lower than it should be for someone who exercises. You said once that you'd love to be my weight... but you're 5'8. 

I love you like a older sister loves their baby brother... but you're scaring me. I don't really know if you understand where I'm coming from.

I hope you're free on sunday so we can hang out again. I wanna tell you how being sick seemed the best way to be skinny for  me at one point.