This could ruin things

I think you’re mine every now and then. I know you’re not, but there are brief moments when the night tricks me into being a firm believer of my own helplessly romantic conspiracy theories. There are conversations and laughs that carry clandestine meaning in our air. We might not know what that meaning is or where it came from, but we know it’s there, behind the toothy grins and wordy eye contact. Our air is heavy. Drunk or sober. The air that flows between the two of us sitting next to each other by the fire under the stars after midnight. The air that has to work constantly and stealthily when we’re all together to contort and disguise itself as innocent, “close friends” bullshit.

I could also just be crazy and lonesome. But most of me thinks you feel it too.