Smothering Fog and Lip Piercings

We're at the threshold, aren't we, you and I? Possibly about to take steps in a different, unprecedented direction. Or do I simply imagine?

I feel my life is smothered in fog, suffocating, but not enough to let me die, so I live in a ghostly stasis, breaking away from life, but not quite joining the ranks of the unliving. Sometimes a ray of sunshine breaks through, letting me think that there's a way out from the mist, that there's something better beyond. Like you, for example.

To be honest, I can't be sure whether you're going to be a ray of sunshine, or trail of fire blazing my way into hell. Maybe you won't be either. Maybe I want you to be something because you're the first person in a long while who's talked to me like I matter. Is that a good enough reason? Probably not, but sometimes any reason is a good reason.

There's an awkwardness between us; the silence which fills the gaps isn't as comfortable as that which settles between two friends - it's the one which occurs when two people are beginning to unfurl to each other, but are afraid of moving forward too quickly. I'm not even certain whether this counts as too quickly; a conversation or two, some customer service, small talk, and finally, an exchanging of names.  You asked the question first, I showed you my name tag. I didn't have to ask for yours, it was displayed on the screen in front of me in black and white letters; a name which has haunted me, belonging to a very different person I used to know. But you're not like her; I can tell.

So were there flirtatious or hinting comments thrown in amongst the awkwardness, like a wolf hiding among dogs? Perhaps there was; I've never been able to tell. Maybe just a little. But I'm not very sure.

I don't know you, but I can tell certain things; you'd want me to give it up to you, that's one thing, and I'm not sure I'll be able to do that. To lose control is a fear of mine, and I know you'll want to be the one who has it all. I can see the glint of it in your blue eyes. Or maybe I'm wrong; maybe you'd let it go - maybe that's what it means when you bite your lip, sucking on the metal which pierces it. Twice.

I don't know. I believe I may be overthinking things again; a trait of mine, I'm afraid. And I don't know whether I should be wondering what it would be like to kiss you with your piercings, or whether I should wonder whether we'll meet again in the aisle with your favourite books. Or wondering anything about you at all. Maybe I ought to stop.

I'm certain I don't fancy you. I'm sure I'm just curious. And I'm sure one day the fog will stop stinging my eyes and I'll be able to see more clearly.