You are not real. You are simply the parts of my mind that wander when it slips away from my watchful eyes. Eagerly, it cups your hands, and all I can do is stare and watch as these false scenarios unfold. Before I know it, my mind has influenced my heart to pump sweet rushes of red that flood my cheeks and ears, causing my lungs to expand slowly and my fingertips to move across this keyboard.
The memory of a person who does not exist drives me mad. Whoever you are, or whoever you may be, I already know that I love you. This tortures me. This tortures me with a feeling that suffocates me. I am sick of the things that have not happened yet. All the fights we will have and all the moments I pray you will run to my side again to make things right. Cradling your cheeks and holding your face like you are the most precious thing in existence, pressing my lips against your tear-stained face. I want to lick them off, tasting the saltiness of your pain. To remind me that your feelings are real, to remind me that you are real, to remind me that I never want to make you cry, if not out of pleasure.
But we all know that is impossible. I will cry and so will you, but I hope you can dive into me like water and press your body into my shoulder and vanish like the sugar in my tea. I do not need you soft and easy. I just need you exactly as you are.
Ugh, this is getting strange, isn’t it?
You are not real, but I want to tangle with you and fall into you and feel all of you. Your breath, your skin, your hands, all its divots and curves and edges, your hair, your heart. I want to feel it all. You are special in my heart, to the person who does not exist. I can love you without knowing you because I can love me. I am simply extending my heart to you. We will lie on a cold wooden floor, and one heart is mine and two will belong to you. I cannot control this level of yearning. I just love so much, so completely.
I do not want this to be me creating an idealized version or mold for you to fit into. I just know that whatever quirks or habits you may have, or will have, or even lose, I want the privilege to love it all as it is, not as whatever you may think I want it to be.
I think all I ask is that you love me the same. The same as I love you, the same as I think of you, stranger. Allow me to be real to you, wherever you are.
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