I still have a secret crush on you and still secretly fantasize about being together one day. And I still secretly scour around details of your life that I still don't have the courage to ask about; only because I don't want you to think that I love you more than you think I do. And I still secretly withhold saying "I love you" because I am still secretly scared that this is all a ride that will end anytime soon. And I still secretly wonder if you've ever wrote them the same lines you did to me or ever spoken the same phrases you did to me or touched them the way you did me or held them, kissed them and cried to them the way you did to me. I know fully well that to think that what we have as ours and ours alone is absurd, and still, I secretly wish that they were exclusively ours to share and one day look back to, tell our children and our grandchildren until they're sick and tired of it. I still secretly keep tabs on how many steps we used to keep apart from each other -- of the distance we so carefully maintained, of the intimacy we silently shared, of the future we used to hesitantly talk about, of the tomorrows we so carefully tried never to bring up, of our fear that it could work for us, of the disappointments we never dared speak about, of the time we used to steal and still do, of the public that doubted us and still do, of the space we constantly negotiate, of how I feel that you and I are in both ways the same and different, of how despite of us and what we've managed to keep I still believe that I cannot do with you. I still secretly fantasize about running away from you because I secretly want you to run after me. That way I could tell for sure if I am the one and you are the one. Because (I am afraid to admit that) I still believe in such silly romantic things; but you know that of me already.
I still ask myself at times, if this is really happening. I still ask myself if we will ever come to that precipice when we have on several instances already did. And why I still do? I don't know. Sometimes, it still feels not real, or real but not Real.
Of the things we both know and don't know about, we've agreed to assume doesn't matter. Still, of this complicity to grammar that we've contracted ourselves to, what obligation to each other do we really uphold and uphold to keep?
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