I’m so good at poking holes in all my own theories, I’d hate for you to do it for me.

I saw you next to the pillar past the double sliding doors, looking lost among a sea of slowing moving cars. You were on the phone with me. I caught your eye and we drove off into the familiar grey, nerves crackling like the bag of gummy bears you were opening in my passenger seat.

I’m so good at filling my head up with doubt, but it’s hard for me to do when you’re lying here next to me. We slowly inch our bodies closer together until we’re supporting each others weight with our own. Politely testing the boundaries of comfort, reservations and familiarity.

Sometimes you don’t realise how much you miss something until you have it again. I’ve done a very good job at putting you in a tiny, locked box in the recesses of my chest cavity until lately. Perfecting the art of forgetting. Seems we both have, however untenable it’s been.

I don’t sleep as well as I do when I’m next to you.