I refuse to explore. I find him completely mundane and endearingly ordinary. His room smells like he lives in it, the empty wine bottles stuffed with melting candles forced into them like he's some romantic fuck. He sits quietly, watching me retreat into myself, waiting for me to come out. He sits with his hands folded, like the patient man he is. He touches the many folds and layers of skin that wrap me up, trying to get to the chocolate underneath.
He has seen me cry, with shame and without, many times over. After a good movie, after a bad one, after sex, before dinner. He has watched my dark hair fall on my face as I hug my knees. He has watched the wars I fight with myself, he has seen me defeated. He hesitates to tell me stories I want to hear, yet he always knows how to make me laugh.
It makes him nervous when I watch him be. He averts his gaze, raises his eyebrows, distracts himself from these feelings that are entirely his own. He asks me questions, this one. My answer is pretty much always the same:
'I'm just thinking'.