I am making up for lost time in the first person, companion, and I like you.
I like the fact that I don't need you. You are pretty, sitting there with your fifties glasses and your smiles and stories of your boyfriend. I even remember that you got a scarf and a hat and a tiny pen for Christmas. But don't get me wrong, I don't need you.
I like the fact that this journey is longer in the first instance and shorter on the second. It is all about acclimatisation, and the smell of your perfume.
I like the fact that you are teasing me and that you run your tongue over your white teeth and that everything you say is affected by that accent, and at times I even feel slightly weakened by you, but I don't need you and this journey isn't too bad.
I think of her again and again, even while I'm thinking of you, dear travelling companion. I even talk of her, as if that isn't enough.
I like you, you are making up for lost time, the time I would have lost to silence and solitude, and perhaps even those spirals which take me away from people and into myself, sometimes for weeks when each of my words is clothed in fatigue.
And although I don't need you, and I like you, we are not expended. You are beautiful enough to think of during private moments of self-pleasure, but also mundane enough to prevent serious infatuation.
Those words again: I like you.