You’re inside right now, laughing and drinking and being beautiful. I spent most of dinner trying not to stare at you, but I ended up doing it anyways. Something happens when our eyes meet and I’m met with this innate sense of safety. I don’t find that in other people. I don’t find that in the mirror. I find it peculiar that you, this pleasant, dangerous thing would be made of comfort. I’ve spent most of my years seeking comfort in the wrong things, people, places… kind eyes have rarely met with mine. I’m terrified of it.
I’ve never known a person I didn’t grow tired of quickly. You know what I mean… that developed quiet that seems to loom in the distance of every interpersonal relationship, the thrill no longer something worth seeking. I feel as though you’re different somehow. Like the days just keep getting brighter and more exciting. I don’t want to get my hopes up. This is fire. I feel about you like you feel about these potential jobs. I hope you’re crossing your fingers too.
So here I am, Friday night, outside in a car writing about you but never to you over a cigarette I might not light. Maybe one day you’ll come to know my many musings. Maybe you never will. Here’s to hoping.