I'm a little tired.
I slept well,
and I don't think I'm sad.

It's just that...
being a responsible,
careful
adult
can get exhausting.

I thought it wouldn't be like that for me,
that I would always be
young and lucid.

But I guess,
no matter how different
we feel about ourselves,
we are all the same.

I thought we would be done by now.

But I keep finding more of you
between the lines
and more of me
between the letters.

Well…
this is not good.

I really, really hoped
you would look worse,
smell worse,
sound worse,
feel worse,
kiss worse…

But you are perfect.
Which means
I have a problem.

You're a gifted writer.
Every word you write
flirts with me.

And there's not much
you can do about it—
except stop writing.

But then,
it will be your silence
flirting with me.

I thought I was happy
until I felt
a tear
slip down my cheek.

I wasn’t sad—
or at least, I didn’t feel so.
It was just something inside me,
letting out one last cry.

I think I'm falling for you—
I can feel the ache,
its every telltale sign.

I think I'm falling for you—
have needed to, wanted to,
since I can remember.

I think I'm falling for you—
for the idea of you
I couldn’t help but create.

I remember all of them.
Maybe because there only were a few.
Still, I would sacrifice one of them
—but no more—
and instead of love and sleep, the two most beautiful things,
I would soak up
the scent of the moment,
the depth of existence,
the essence of life,
disregarding the finitude of moments.
And I would etch every detail into my memory—
our bodies,
the room,
the sounds outside the window.
I would give my entire old age
for the chance to live forever in one night,
next to you,
in a time of love.