I was not passionless, you were my passion, as much as it may sound like a glorification or romanticization. As much as it may have scared you that I may have been in love with only the idea of you.
But the proof was undeniable, those two years were based off more than just an idea, it was something more, a feeling, it was life. You were my life, literally.
You were one of the few things that kept me alive at the time, when I was so terrified of death. With those nights we first spent together, on the golf course, holding hands, and watching that shooting star fall. The nights we would spend in my room just you and I, how I asked if I could lay on your chest, those heartbeats I heard were of the calmest moments in my life. The hours and hours of videogames we would play together, laughing. The things we would watch together as we ate away at what seemed like was our problems. The feeling of your cold floor as I'd walk barefoot to make us tea in your dorms, when I'd lay in bed with you, how cold my feet were as they touched yours, how cold they no longer were after.
And now that it is once again cold, I can't believe that it was only romanticization, regardless of my claims of being a hopelessly romantic writer, I refuse to believe that. That warmth was not a lie.
A vent. Please excuse that this may not be poetry.