I stayed up talking with you for four hours tonight.
It started off with nervous laughter at potential ****-ups and ended in comfortable butterflies fluttering in my twisted stomach.
You call me “youngin” because you know how much it annoys me,
You’re only older by a year (“and six months”, you always remind me),
But you say my naivety is adorable.
You’re starting to catch on to the little phrases I say
And each time you say them, I notice more than any one around you probably does.
Showered in infatuation, bathing in the intoxication of affection,
We lull into an unrealistic sense of security that we find in each other arms, hundreds of miles away.
We might never meet again
But each time I talk to you, it’s like the first time.
A whispered laugh at your gasp as you realize just what time it really is
And I tell you it’s okay to go to sleep because I care about you
But you don’t care for me in the same way.
That’s okay as long as you keep calling me until 2:10.