I am your favourite pair of pyjamas.
The one so faded that you can no longer make out the artwork at the front. The one with a tear in the sleeve you keep forgetting to mend.
The one that has gotten so loose with time and use.
The one that you should probably throw out, replace but never do.
Because I am comfortable, familiar, safe.
I am your favourite midnight supper – the kind that is bad for you but you just can’t say No.
I am the reason why you would take ninja steps to sneak out of your house in the middle the night to get your fix – like a bad habit you can’t break.
I am the one you devour with hasty hands and a careless mouth – I am your guilty pleasure, your favourite sin.
And one might think that you love me for all I am to you.
But wait, there’s more.
I am the favourite pair of pyjamas that you wear to bed only when no one’s around.
The one that you leave crumpled, forgotten on the floor when you leave hastily in the morning.
I am the favourite midnight supper that leaves you feeling guilty right after.
The one that you rid of all evidence of what had happened the night before.
Like a dirty secret, I can’t be seen.
When just hours before, your tongue was writing poetry on my skin.
I know all your friends by name, but we will never be introduced.
I will never meet your parents because for some reason, you are never quite sure enough about me.
I am the vampire promises you make that will never see daylight, the professions of love you can only say in the dead of the night.
I am the accusation you would always deny.
I am neither here nor there, always stuck in between good and not good enough.
I am all that but at the same time, I am not.
You tell me that you love me only when no one is listening.