Something in the way he moves

There's a small space somewhere in between ruthless ambition, comedy and neurosis - just a very small space - where I think about you.
And in those moments, a million forgotten fragments float to the surface and choke me between laughing off an old memory and realising nobody will ever read me in the way you do.

By and large I just want the world to leave me alone,but there are secret pockets in my heart where I'm 'Soccer Mom' and spend every day baking cookies, making packed lunches, doing glitter paint and pasta necklaces with a bunch of unruly kids at a big table in a sunny room.
Every Friday there's a chicken soup dinner on the table at 7.30, and twice a year we take a short let on a gallery and show your work.
There. I've said it now. But the badge on the pocket has only ever had your name on it. I don't feel that way about anyone else.
I'm annoyed at myself because I don't even know where that impetus comes
from, only that I could be stuck with you 'til the end of time and conversation would never run dry. And that we could both happily be too clever by half.

Something in you brings out frankness in me and always has done.
By contrast, you're a closed book that gives up no secrets; a camera-shy voyeur with your face pressed up against a 2 way mirror into the world.
Do we meet somewhere in the middle?

Our most dangerous shared trait is the pursuit of that which we cannot have - maybe I'm here again.
Or maybe, more frighteningly, we're Harry and Sally but neither of us will admit it.