It's weird how he intrigues me
his soul seeming to be the embodiment
of all that blows through the windy corridors of my mind.
He embarks on steep conversations ascending a hill of knowledge,
each book, film, album, poem a step ahead of me.
Many steps ahead of me.

As I sit. In my little pool of melancholy. Watching the undulating water as each drop of despair, sadness or lamentations contribute to the waters.

In his presence I feel lost
yet brilliantly terrified.
Perhaps it comes from the knowledge that he would never love me.
Or perhaps the puzzelment, why me?
Why would he even want to spend his precious time with me

As he climbs the hills of conversation
Yelling down heroes, countries, capitals that he has learnt by heart, by name, by creed.
That he has revelled in for all these by-gone years.

I feel myself shrinking back into the corridors of my mind.
Closing the doors.
Staring at myself in the mirror.
What? Who am I?

And here he is.

Sharing his carefully curated version of reality with me. Pulling the stars down from the sky to bejewel his crown of thoughts.

And I. I. I go back into the sadness that knows me so well.
My own coal grey cloud to crown my head.
My sleepy, windy head.