You came out with it one night, alone in a dark, forbidden, private garden.
We'd been leading to it for months:
"So I was thinking, we should have ***"
Casually presented, I blushed, heart (etc) aflutter - "I beg your pardon?".

An impressionable 15 to your wise 16 years, it was a far cry from the declaration(s) I wanted from you,
I was caught off-guard, still giddy from just being there, but I think even then, even then, I knew.
You turned to me, eyes at half-mast but still with that infuriating twinkle to them.
Then, when I was still more or less innocent, you were the object from which all my dreams would stem.
I would plan my day with you in mind, always in my mind, my nightly rituals, my daily routines,
It was stupid, you were looking (everywhere) elsewhere, I was picturing us as two love-stuck teens.

Love itched rather than burned then, a constant presence I carried everywhere - it was oppressive.
I loved it though, even now when what we share is different, I remember, and I love it.
It hurts, and I still think about it, a lot, and nothing seems to compare to you, to us,
I don't feel like getting out of bed some days, that's not all down to you though,
And it should be easier, but it isn't, and I don't tell anyone I feel like this, because they will judge me, and they will be right to.
I miss you, when we talk, when a radio silence stretches on for weeks, and my perverse take on dedication -  obsessive.