It was two years ago that I sat in a chair across from you and we locked eyes.
And I felt special, because of all the pairs of eyes in the room, you landed on mine, and stayed on mine.
Muffled voices and blurred movements of people around us danced around my peripheral.
Your short, unbrushed hair gently framed your small, delicate face.
Your eyes, a shape I had never seen before, dark and beady, mysterious and beautiful, I remember perfectly.
There was a feeling in that short moment our eyes met, a feeling that still excites me so much.
And I swear I saw it in you, too.
And I swear I sometimes see it, even now.
But you are shy and you are unavailable.
We lock eyes for so long sometimes, and I hope that in those moments you can see that I want you so bad.
That I want to talk about films, and art, and beautiful things with you.
But instead, you visit me in my dreams and everything I wish for plays out in cinematic images while I sleep.
And it feels so good before I realize it isn’t real.
But I’m getting so tired.
Because I have wanted you for so long but you are distant in real life.
And it is not my place to have you.
But in a strange way, I feel like a part of you is mine.
You visit me behind heavy eyelids so often.
And you are so much more than you show.
And we dance.
And we kiss.
And we cry.
And we are silent and content.
But you only love me in my dreams.