I liked you best last night.
I liked you best because you looked soft and tired, slightly hungover, and almost vulnerable. I can’t seem to otherwise penetrate the glass encasing you have built around yourself, of intellect and formidable cool- equally terrifying and inviting.
I am cornered by the unbearable notion that in between these sickly walls, I cannot reach out and feel you like I would like to.
In my mind, I grab you and stroke you and maybe even vulgarize you - a little- but most of all, I speak to you, without fear of the intruder in the room, the intruder who links us together, the very loved intruder whom we protect (perhaps to save him from hurt, but more likely to save us both from the insurmountable obstacle of being vulnerable.)
Yes, in my mind we have a full, complete, apocalyptic love affair, the stuff of myths and movies. In the space between stolen moments, I reshape and colour us into something big and great and passionate and fluid. All heart and madness.
These tales are much better than the half formed, undefined reality. This almost lazy triangle we have to constantly recalibrate ..
But I think we both prefer the incandescent secrecy, in case the real thing was boring.