The file of intimate and damning details

You can fall in love in 75,000 ways

but for some (like me) it begins (and persists)

by gathering a file of intimate details

a file marked “Oh fuck now that I know this about you, how do I go back?”

The details could be anything

but for me they have to be as follows:

the old hole-ridden tee shirt they sleep in

the pet names they’ve given the people they love

the things they choose to tuck under their pillow

the stuff they eat when harrowed

screenshots they take of interesting things they’ve read

and how they answer the phone when the the caller is familiar

and where they sit when they’re upset

and all the places they walk in when they’re sad

the spellings they never get right (it’s ‘believe’ and not ‘beleive’)

and the many ways in which they’ve tormented their sibling

and the childhood friend they have nothing in common with anymore

and the weird combination of foods they vehemently justify (dosa and jam for god’s sake)

and the flowers they choose for you when they want to:

a: apologise

b: celebrate

c: just give you flowers

and how long they take to order a thing in a restaurant

and the exact percentage of neediness they display when sick

and 7 embarrassing personal details

+ 3 kinks and a decent number of fantasies

and their real laugh vs their fake social laugh

and their ugly fighting face, crying face, woke up with goop eye face

and the way they kiss you when it’s a kiss that isn’t going anywhere

and at least one story that nearly made you cry

and a few that’ve made you laugh

and the gestures they use to leave rooms

and the lies they manufacture to avoid certain people

and the people they avoid

and the songs they fall back on

and their phone number by heart even though it’s 2022 and no one does that shit anymore.