Maybe I really do like the way your hands can make anything art, so casually.
Maybe I really enjoyed that time you pretended to sit next to me only because there was no-one else to sit with.
Maybe I liked the immature jokes, that time I injured you with hot glue.
That time we were walking around naming paper birds with nothing better to do
or that time we decided that speaking bad french was our new hobby.
Maybe it’s how we both think sarcasm should be a language.
Maybe it’s how you said “please talk to me tomorrow. I don’t wanna be alone”.
Maybe it’s the way you blushed and blamed it on that basketball game you had earlier.
Maybe it’s your comical disinterest for calculus, and tickling, and puns.
Maybe it’s the fact that you have no idea that I’m thinking these things.
Maybe it’s all these little maybes adding up in a way they haven’t before
Maybe it’s you, and maybe I like that.