Under my skin

You constantly think about him nowadays.When you wake up, when you’re washing the dishes, when you listen to music, when you read, when you go to sleep. It’s addictive and exciting and exhausting and frustrating. What is he doing? What is he thinking? What is he feeling? Does he think about you as much? Does everything remind him of you? You’re always hoping that when a message comes in, that it’s from him. Maybe he’ll ask how you’re doing or what you’re up to or if you’d like to do something together. You ask yourself when you became this person, this day-dreamy, fantasy-making, moon-addled person. It’s not like he’s that good looking.

These feelings don’t make sense. I mean, is he even your type? Do you even have a type?  Does he have any idea how much he has intruded into your world? The once calm and peaceful space that was your own?  Does he have any idea? You have a relationship with the guy in your head. The one you have built, except with his face. Sometimes you want to throw him out yet most of the time you’re glad he’s there.

You hope there’s someone with your face in his head too. Haunting his days like a pleasant and strange ghost. Until you meet him again, you entertain his ghost. You do not tell a single soul because you don’t understand it and maybe you never will. But if he’s not telling then you’re not telling too.

Whisper

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