I am a weird soul.
On lazy Saturday afternoons, I would just look at you. Look at how you blink while you look out of the window endlessly. Look at how you hold up that coffee mug. Look at your fingers.
But some afternoons, I might not look at anything other than words. Words in the books, words in my diary.
I might be a man of family. But some days, I would need to be a child, caring a little less about how irrelevant things turn about.
I would take that step to mend our ties if things don’t go well between us, but some days, I would need you to tell me this,
“Come, let’s have dinner together.”
I might make love to you in a way you would remember, but some days, I might need to just sleep being wrapped around you.
I would, most of the days, let you have the whole day for yourself. But some days, I would need you, just for myself.
I told you. I am a weird soul.