Just because I think you are weird, doesn't mean I don't absolutely love you. 

Don't move on.

I hate walking along the perfume aisle in Landmark. Because somewhere there, I smell you. I don't know what exactly it is. Paco Rabanne or cheap CK. I don't know what you wore. Or what you were. But I know you smelled the same, every time we met. I liked that about you. You were old enough, sure enough, classy enough, to have one and stick to it. You were a grown-up. I love grown-ups. 

The boy I know now - he reeks - of something different everyday. All I know is that he reeks. I know he will leave soon. I know he wants to. I'm thankful that I have no smell to remind me of him. I have a voice, a song, a restaurant, a ringtone, an initial on gtalk. But no perfume. I will forget him fast. I must, because time is running out. He keeps me holding on, never saying, never committing. Giving me just enough, so that I don't move on