it's not like you I am scared that you will come back and smile. I am very scared at you will come back and be laid-back and easygoing and jokey. If you come back wearing pastels I will keel over. If you call me Harry and don't correct yourself I will pinch my arm. And if you lean in and kiss me in a taxi I'll cry. Because it's not like you. I want you to come back sneering. Smirking. Snickering. Your eyes grey or ice blue. Wanting to love me but not wanting to. Stiff and uptight and with that crude sense of humor that I like. Wearing black and grey and green; silver and white and occasionally a shade of blue. Come back and call me Potter and Harry accidentally. Come back and look at me in a taxi, pay the fare, get out and kiss me in the hallway of my flat. Hard. Salty. Slick. Like the rain that falls outside, thick and in sheets. Rain does not change. I don't want you to, either. Don't come back laughing and trying to be friendly. Come back spitting and angry and pissed at Ron like you always were--are. Don't come back and pet the cat, come back and snarl at the cat and watch the cat run under the table. Don't chase after it; laugh at it. Don't smile at me lovingly and tenderly, smile at me a smile that is malice and heat in one mouth. That is what I want. Because it's not like you to be somebody else. And when you hear that, tell me it's cliche and then you can smile tenderly. But don't do it the other way around. back