I love watching you clean up your room. You’re afraid you’re boring me, but I get this grin across my face just watching you. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed it yet. You flitter back and forth, picking random things up with each pass. Walking this way, cigarettes and a pair of socks, that way, a t-shirt and a pair of shoes. And there is no order to the way your clothes are hung up. You hold them up with a chin to chest grasp and button to nearly the top. A hanger in and this shirt goes in facing left. A determined walk back across the room. Another shirt up against yourself, but this one goes in facing the right. I shift a little on the couch, because secretly this is killing me. My clothes are hung with order, they all face the left, color coordinated, sorted by sleeve length and fanciness. But my need for control stops now. I want to know you, and keep you just the way you are.


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