I wish I could refer to him as only “the most gorgeous man I ever met”, but I couldn’t. Because he wasn’t. He was more than that.
I don’t even want to write. It’s cold and I don’t have a coat. My hands don’t deal well with wind, but I need to write this. I need to write about how he looked at me today, about how his eyes were pointed to mine, about how this look wasn’t definitely our only communication through the day, but still the most profound conversation I ever had. I need to write about our hands looking for an excuse to touch each other – we don’t find one but I put my hands above his anyway, for a second. He turns up his hand, and gifts me with his fingers between mine. He left his arms around me for what I thought it was eternity.
It’s not a dream, it’s real.