pretend

Let’s pretend that you don’t know me. But not really. Like you’ve never even seen me in your whole life and that you’re learning my name for the very first time.

Let’s pretend that you don’t know anything about me. That you don’t know what turns me on, that you don’t have a clue on what ticks me off. In a way, you choose your words carefully, but not really, but then you don’t really care. You don’t know me at all; and you don’t owe me any apologies.

Let’s pretend that you don’t know me. I am a mystery to you. For some reason you can’t explain, you are drawn to me, though you don’t know that I am drawn to you too. We are both unwilling and unknowing victims to each other, oblivious to anything that we both feel, for whatever words might be able to define it. We try do drop each other hints, try, but not really. Our eyes meet each other, but not really. There we go, but not really.

Let’s pretend that we don’t know each other. That I don’t want to know more about you, that you don’t really care about me. That you don’t really care that I want to know more about you, and that I don’t really need to know that. It is what it is, whatever it is, and we both couldn’t care less.

Let’s pretend that I don’t care. That every single time you look at me, I don’t see it; that every brush of my skin against your skin, I don’t feel it. That I am not scared of whatever it is that we don’t have, that what doesn’t scare me the most is that I might not be enough for you, that it eats me up inside everytime we’re together. That I don’t know that you feel exactly the same way. So I try to push you away, try to keep away from you as much as I can’t. Like the sun blinds me and burns me deeper, the closer I get to you. But you don’t know that. Not yet, not really.

Let’s pretend. But not really.

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