You’re a collection of little things.

Memorabilia.

Like the scent of white tea and the alternation of bright summer skies and rainy afternoons. Out-of-context conversations, pieces of misplaced hints. A whole sea of clues. You’re this Sherlock Holmes wannabe, with a tendency to overreact and a complex imagination, ready to create a complete new universe.

Still. You’re the air bed on the floor and the walks around the school field. You’re the square. You’re the bag of pot, the geology misconception, the blaring music.

The jealousy.

_{(yours and mine)}

You’re the love bipolar, the first thought, the last thought. You’re the butterflies-in-my-stomach, you’re the hands-shaking, heart-breaking, head-pounding. You’re the little smile that enchanted me, the hands-in-pockets, the closet-poet, the charmer. The charmer, never the charmed.

You’re the hidden glances, the flat-out hypocrisy.

The music – you’re the music, you’re the music, you’re my music.

You’re forgettable but not to me. You’re ordinary, but not to me. You’re the math equation I could never solve – you’re the sun that never bothered rising.

Baby, it’s too late.

But if you smile at me –

You’re the cappuccino. You’re the Mickey Mouse t-shirt.

You’re forgettable, never forgotten.