I never minded the little anchors you often inked on your forearm.
I found your fleeting doodles quite endearing, actually.
I never took advantage of the way you twirled the tips of my hair around your index finger as I let slumber win; my head finding comfort on your collarbone.
I never once second guessed why you adored the way I looked at you, galaxies in my eyes but vacancy in yours.
I told you all my fears but didn’t question why you refused to tell me yours.
Little did I know, and much later did I realize that we shared the same fears.
I was naïve,
And you liked that about me.