humans are creatures of habit, but sometimes these things we do become walls we build up that close around us over time and i’m starting to feel like i can’t breathe.
last night when you turned out the lights, you paused for a second and realized that you’d forgotten to brush before going to sleep. it’s funny how the needle on the turntable of your brain can just completely skip over an action you’ve repeated so many times over the past eighteen years that it’s probably carved a groove so deep it’ll never fade
part of me is worried that when none of this is fresh and new and a conscious choice each time, it’ll start to slip your mind too
part of me is waiting with bated breath for the languid motion of your arm around my shoulder to slowly become calculated clockwork, a slow shifting of gears tooth by tooth to a familiar resting position without the spark; when the tips of your fingers lose all trace of hesitation to dial at the crook of my waist like a phone number you’ve memorized by pure repetition, i will cut the line and back away from you gingerly
it’s magic and exhilaration to learn another person by heart from scratch but familiarity tends to breed boredom and i never want to have to fear that this is suffocating you; i don’t want to face the possibility of love being just an illusion, that muscle memory is all you learn from constancy