There was no way I couldn't write this, it was completely necessary and burdening me and prodding me until it was spewed so not eloquently onto paper in messy half-cursive and scribbles. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I had let this one escape me. I hope you read it.
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Thinking about how your eyes probably dripped kerosene.
I love the person I think you are even though I've only had one conversation with you, the intensity in that moment will be with me forever, but you probably hardly remember. Except you remember me. You have to, you must. You can write me better than I can write myself. We have an unspoken bond that we will forever share.
And sometimes I wonder what you would be like late at night in an armchair across the room from me in some dimly lit apartment or hotel with a mug of coffee clutched in your hands. I can hear the words escaping your mouth in my mind only I don't really know if that's YOUR voice or maybe one I've made up. All I know is that I would kill-- fucking kill-- to see you so vulnerable and broken and absolutely beautiful and exposed.
I imagine the intensity of moments we could have, with deep honey caramel eyes, somehow dark and hard and melty all at the same time, breaking into piercing icy blue.
I'm not in love with you, and you don't really remember me. Me as a person, whoever that "me" was then. I couldn't believe the weight of your arms around me, your smell, the sweat and the sensation of me wanting to cry and throw up and smile so hard my face would crack into a million shards of broken memories of the Moment I never wanted to forget.
I am not in love with you, Peter Pan, but you do hold a special part of my heart somewhere I can't exactly define. But when I reminisce about that intensity that same spot swells inside so big and pervading it's absolutely impossible to ignore. And I know they think they get it-- get you-- but I feel a step ahead. It's a special sort of understanding that may be even better than actual happenings --because our happenings are more tangible in a strange way, reaching deep into a place inside me where I'm not sure even I can get to. More meaningful than a sweaty hug and picture in a crowded room.
What this is is never-ending, eternal, like Neverland itself, and you're something special, Peter Pan.
Always.