Their name tastes like honey in your mouth, your name sounds like rubies in theirs
They begin to occupy that very sacred real estate in your mind; the blackness behind your eyes as you drift off the sleep
You spend your lunchtimes surreptitiously reading about their star sign
You know their smell anywhere - caught on their collar, caught in the air, caught on you
You avidly devour any reference they give you as another breadcrumb in the trail leading you closer to who they really are
A chance to bring them up in conversation is a private treat
Your music tastes begin to alter slightly, as though you’re seeing the world through a different lens
You are content to stare at blank spaces - ceilings, skies - any place where your mind can paint them all over the surface
The latest sadness stored in your heart begins to recede slightly, replaced with a cautious hope
Your world threatens to become dissatisfying every moment they aren’t in it, you wonder whether it is altered forever
You start singing - loudly and badly - in the shower, even when the morning is black and dense
Intolerance for the boring, the obligatory, the repetitive creeps in
You read yourself to sleep in their voice
You imagine a ghostly finger tracing up your arm in the lift
Every day is a good pant day
Written and illustrated by Jess Bird