I think you were my favorite person. Of course I could never tell you this. I always felt like an aimless gawk bird flapping and whooping for your attention, never achieving your interest.
Your entrance was like none I’d ever seen before. I didn’t know whether you were about to steal our hearts or our breaths away, you stole both. You had jeans on and a white t-shirt, your grey hoody drooping down your back and arms.
You sat down and didn’t speak. I looked the other direction, too scared that you might see me through overdrawn eye contact. I realize now how unrealistic my fear was – that you would never see me.
You were good at telling stories. You told one the night I met you. In the state I was in usually my eyes would close, but they held onto you for dear life that night. I heard a man in your voice only to notice a little boy peeking from your eyes. The only way I can describe your face was as misery on the sunniest day. My heart soared for you. In those moments I wanted to jump onto your lips. Not to kiss you, as I did much later that night, but to be told by you- to be a story from your mouth.
In all your fictional truths I have come to realize that I was, am, the only disillusioned one. That when thinking about us I’ve created the greatest novel. We met when I was in the youngest mental state I could possibly exist in at that age. Even after you stood me up I held tight to my thoughts of you. You had existed between my legs thousands of times and still every time you got in my car it felt like you didn’t know my name. Sometimes my whole body would cringe at the thought.
My dear storyteller, you asked so much of me and I gave you more than you’ll ever know. Maybe I felt like life had given you less than you deserved and so it was justified.
Your exit was quite the contrary to your becoming. Predictable, yet, erratic. I’ll never forget that night I picked you up. You didn’t look at me. I drove you around and you asked me to drop you off. That night I went home crying. I was a slave to your never-ending epic.
Dear boy, why have you left me out of your story? My only hope was to debut in one of your legends, for you to paint me like a picture you created out of desire, a photo you refuse to take your eyes off of.
I don’t know how to end our story my dear fabulist. Ceasing thoughts of such a grand entrance as yours is an improbable act. But I suppose to abide in your myth, yet far from its effect is my only real chance at freedom…
Miss Parisia B