Let’s tell the story no one ever speaks of.
In the beginning, there were moments of intimacy choreographed for films, best set in black in white so a person watching could understand that they were witnessing a piece of art being engendered.
There were moments where even a stranger would watch and feel the crisp morning sunrise on their cheek.
But as time wore on, our differences expanded—I: a creative dreamer, you: the responsible realist. While I found your presence comforting, it became increasingly…boring.
So I move to the land of the stars to pursue my life long dream. We stay friends. We still love each other, but neither one of us knows it or is close to willing to admit as much.
AND THE MOMENT EVERYTHING CHANGES. I visit you and we lay hands on each other, which is the most candied fucking euphemism of what really happened.
It was so uncanny of a thing for either or us to do, as anyone else can attest, but love is a two-sided coin. We were impossibly, belligerently drunk, you were coming off of perscriptives, you got arrested, (you’re literally twice my size) I can’t sleep; you had scratches, I had bruises.
But despite all of this, despite my good upbringing, advanced education, and prominent ego, I still love you.
I feel as though when we speak, you will be angry, bitter with me, but I now understand that what we had was something special. It needs work, but nothing good comes easy. I’m tired of the games; two people as intelligent as we are need not hide from ourselves, especially in front of each other. I am no longer afraid to tell you that I love you still, even if you confess you no longer love me. Fear controls people as though they are stringed-up effigies of themselves. But when we finally speak again, I will pronounce my feelings, the truth. You will see me as you once did, as when we gazed at each other, with that steadfast glimmer emanating across time. One day you will join me by the sea. And it will be in full color, with the sun rising.