I live my life in cool abandonment. In laconic pleasure. In severe concern for all who don’t.
I love you and the way you carry yourself. The way you know the perfect pitch for saying, “What?” after I speak to you, the way you walk, the way you never manage to get crumbs of biscuit on your clothes when you bite into it. I love how you repeatedly throw all your creativity towards the sky with the hope that people will catch parts of it as they fall. I love how outspoken you are. I love how you never seem to run into quarrels with auto drivers. I love how you turn down offers to strike up conversations from people you know little. I love how you never get harassed. I love the tick of tension you put inside me as soon as you greet. I love the relief after a conversation with you ends. I love watching you.
But most of all, I love the fact that I am not you. You irritate me.