Is It All Too Much To Ask?

I want to be

the reason behind your skyrocketing phone bills.

the reason why you can’t stay awake at work.

the one you think of when a particular song plays; when any song plays.

the one you yell at for leaving damp towels on the bed.

the one who makes the air whoosh out of your lungs with a laugh.

the one you miss so terribly that everything reminds you of me.

the one who makes you paranoid.

the one you want to have babies with.

the one who breaks the damn that holds your words in.

the string that ties your sanity together.

the one who doesn’t have a name on your phone’s contacts list.

the one you buy expensive things for.

the one you take to the cheapest restaurants.

the one you pine for.

the one you’re thinking of when you write erotica.

the one you pick up from work and drop home when taking a train feels tiresome.

the one who makes you check your phone for texts the moment you wake up.

the reason you have a dopey smile on your face.

the one who makes you wet without a touch.

the one who gets you all riled up over nothing.

the one you can’t imagine with someone else.

that someone else you tell somebody else you’re falling for.

the reason behind your mood swings.

the one you want.

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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