I suppose I'll never know the inside of your brain, every crevice and hidden memory.
Never feel your arms pulling me closer on a Sunday morning as birds outside harmonise to the beating of our hearts and low hum of our words.
Never see the smile that was reserved only for me, your eyes filled with fondness.
An admiration that grew slowly like little daisies watered by every tucking of a hair behind your ear, every eyelash pinched gently from your cheek.
It's on me, and only me.
My tendency to drift away for reasons I can't explain.
To leave without a word.
To crash through the paper thin glass of what could be just as it begins to thicken.
I suppose that I'll just never know.