Things I wanted to say to you two months ago:

I don't think you're ready to be with me. I don't think you like me enough. I wish you did like me enough, though, there's something about you that I can't put my finger on that sings to me, and even if it didn't last forever I think it could be lovely, I think we could have some fun. I think it'd be enjoyable, but maybe you don't. Or maybe you really are that lazy, but that doesn't sit well either. I don't know, I couldn't work out what you were thinking and as someone who prides herself on working those things out, you unsettled me. Maybe that's why you still plague my mind like a virus I cannot rid myself off, a lingering sneeze or cough when I'm least expecting it, reminding me that I still wear the skin you touched. 

I didn't go back to him until I realised it was a pointless exercise.

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