Sometimes, I think of you.
Mostly, I don't, and I think you'd like it that way. But sometimes I do.
I put down the metal edge, wipe my brow and fail to keep from smudging my face. I breathe out, and before I can even admire my work you're there again. I can't let my guard down for a damn second with you. Your elbows rest on my shoulders, your arms drape themselves gently around my neck. Your hands feel my heart beat where it hides in my chest. There's that smell again, like lilac and lavender ground freshly together, dried, burned. I catch from the corner of my eye that wry little smile of yours twisted up at one end, the little smirk that captivated me until I knew what it meant.
All I can do is cover it all up. It smears everywhere, all up my sleeves and over the pages-- it's so reflexive and so fast that I almost knock the pen away. I pause, hovering between anger and bewilderment, sifting through the paper to see what's been undone. I breathe. The rushing sound drains away from my ears, and I'm alone again.
Mostly, I don't think of you, and I like it that way.
But sometimes I do.
