The first time I remember really looking at you, it was on the internet, I was upstairs locked up in my office ignoring the rest of the house and whoever could have been in it. It had been difficult for me to pay attention to Florida over the past few years, and that night wasn't much different. The air was dense and wet and hot, the lights had been turned off except for some monitors, one that had a Game of Thrones books verses the tv show essay up so I could argue points without having to watch what it had turned into, something drowsy playing in the background and a match that one of my friends had sent me because she knew I needed some cheering up despite my saying I'd sworn it off altogether. I had to turn off my music, I stopped listening to the two hour explanation on the Drowned Ones and my attention was fixed. Did I understand why it was a big deal that you put Shawn's hands in your pockets? No the fuck I didn't, it'd be dumb to say otherwise, but it was so silly and fun and atypical from everything that I'd seen in what felt like an age, it wasn't that I couldn't look away but I didn't want to. When I was having a lot of troubles with figuring out where I was and what was more or less left of me, you made me laugh. There was this incredibly talented, fit, and most importantly, silly person who I was never going to meet in my whole life making me laugh like I'd never forgotten how to in the first place.
Fast-forwarding a bit to the inevitable acquisition of myself on the behalf of my friends who wouldn't shut up about it, I remember seeing you backstage among all the nerves and heart flutters and short breath, and thinking oh my gosh, he's actually that pretty in real life. And you were, you were handsome in that very out of time, out of a photo on the street, the thing that people try to capture and lock away behind millions of dollars in couture ad campaign money that they never quite get right. It was like, it was like the sun knew it could look at you and fawn over you but never kiss you. I didn't want to talk to you, I knew I'd say something stupid, so I'd look occasionally between conversations when I hoped that you either wouldn't notice or wouldn't care.
I know that things happen in the course that they're supposed to and that's how we appreciate the best bits when we get them, but there's a part of me that's mad I didn't try harder the first time, knowing how the best part of any day is staying up all hours and trying to fight off sleep to talk to you longer. I'm only sad that I think we as a society are beyond, like, falling asleep with someone on the other end of a phone call. I think it's kind of romantic, maybe I'm just selfish and miss you when you're gone. It's all a bit selfish really, the minute I stepped off the plane last week and got picked up, went and had an amazing, quiet night where the only thing I remember hearing is the combined shrillness of my voice with Natalie's, the whole time I missed how warm your arms had been hours before. How soft your voice was in my ear and how easy and loud I could hear your breathing when we were just laying around doing nothing. As much as you look like blue sky in the middle of the day, you taste like the sun sinking into the night night sky, like clean, ripe raspberries in velvet and the promise of a dark, comfortable night to get lost in. I miss the weight of your mouth on mine when we're gone, I'm happy we're not gone for today.
