(no subject)
His figure leaning on the doorway in the faint backlight, contoured with the rembrandt-like lines, missing tiny ugly angels at his feet. I could just stare, I believe. You walk through the room, like breathing was easy, although it isn’t for you. Tracing your body with fingers, blindly learning your features, getting to know, shelving among memories.
Everything you say is witty, funny, interesting, admirable, impressive, confusing, amazing, surprising, and right.
Second week on, I can barely think straight, I can barely walk straight.
But guess what, this time I don't have to.