Bug Me, Hug Me, Love Me.

Bug Me, Hug Me, Love Me.

He bugged me.

He hugged me.

He loved me?

He loved me.

He just couldn’t say it.

He said he couldn’t phrase it.

But he felt something.

Something that for once wasn’t nothing

Something weird.

Something unclear.

But it was something that made me happy.

Something that made him question why we were acting so subtly sappy.

With me it was words, they always came so easy.

With him it was something that made him think about his time and not being so measly.

Inviting me out to the movies, though he wasn’t a fan.

With me it was listening to him and his every tech-man rant.

I never suspected this would be us.

I never expected that our first time together would be our every time together.

He always made it special.

Relived the magic of our first feat together.

Reminded me of our first night’s low-lighting.

Of that club’s babbling and fighting.

Not from us.

From them. The bunch who couldn’t just be there without the fuss.

We had an unspoken peace.

We didn’t know each other well then, we didn’t say more than five words before we were out in the breeze.

We walked, hand-in-hand.

I stalked his eyes peripherally as he looked through the land.

A land without purpose. A land filled with the hopeless.

A land appropriate for the moodiness of “Duran, Duran.”

An unexpected precipice we were escaping.

Into his car we went, he made a joke that bugged me just a little. But not enough to shortened our first night in the making.

A night in which he bugged me.

A night in which he hugged me.

A night in which he loved me.

A night in which I loved him.

A night that would be our own repeat.

A night in which there’d always be a beat.

A beat from his phone.

He’d bug me into asking him to take me to his home.

I’d bug him to take me to eat somewhere tasty before, somewhere where our words of filler could roam.

Then after he’d let me taste him again.

A taste exactly the same from when we first decided to begin.

A taste of his lips, a visual taste of his green eyes. Green with enviousness.

Enviousness at not being able to say it. The “L” word I was so adept at phrasing in playful and absolute seriousness.

He couldn’t. He said his strong suit was showing it.

He did.

Every time he bugged me.

Every time he hugged me.

Every time he loved me.

If only he could say it.

If only he would stop delaying it.

If only he understood what it felt to be.

To be someone without the “L” to hear on repeat.

If only, just once, he could tell me.

How much he truly loved me.