I don't know. I don't know. I feel like I'm lost. It's confusing, this thing we have going on, like it could perhaps be more. But I don't know if that's wishful thinking or whether it's a vibe I'm getting from you. But I know you don't have to start conversations, and yet you do it anyway. You must like talking to me, at least.
Every time, I feel like I leave a little bit of me behind, something for you to chew and savour before you digest it. Each time I hope it means you'll want some more. It appears to be working because you're the one who initiates more of a conversation than we might otherwise have. And it wouldn't be so noticeable if it weren't for your terrible conjunctions from one idea to the next, like you want to keep me there with anything that comes to mind next. Or maybe you do actually care about things you ask me to tell you. Somehow you're rubbing your thumb around my edges, softening me where I was all hard, razor lines. I'm coming off on your fingers, and you're taking part of me with you.