I remember doing cocaine in my dorm room...you weren't, just him and I, but the rest of you were all there and we were watching a movie about the disco era (54 or Boogie Nights, I get the two nights so confused). You were on the floor, drawing in a sketchpad. You were drawing in pen (I don't know why, for you've told me since that you hate to draw in pen), you drew a picture of a Klansman whose dark shadow spelled out "HATE." And I thought of just how beautiful you were at that very moment.

That scared me so much. That was back in the days when sometimes I believed that all I really wanted in this world was for you to kiss me. Now that you have, I realize that it wasn't enough, that when it comes to you, there's no such thing as "enough."

I wish I'd never found that out. I wish that I'd let myself live with that simple longing, and that we still naively held hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I know from experience that you're a bad habit, and harder to break each time I pick you up.
We fit. It makes sense. The ways we've changed over time have only served to make us more suited to each other. There is a pull there, like the urge to stand as close as possible to the edge of a cliff.
I could fight it. Let you fade into the background of my social circle, until you're once again nothing more than a pleasant "What if?" to consider in a bemused daydream.
But I don't want to. I want the cliff, the precipice made windy from the breeze of your warm whisper in my ear. I want meandering conversations and sharp banter until the movement of your mouth moves me to move closer to you.
But what's the use of my wanting? For in your hands I am
the fiddle and the burning city
How can I see what went wrong
with smoke in my eyes?
How can I listen to my voice of reason
when the roar of the fire thunders in my ears?
What use my wits, my senses,
when you have left me stumbling, groping in this blaze?
The heat of you - even your absence!
sets me aflame.

You be Nero, darling, I'll be Rome.

I don't remember the first time I saw him. Part of me feels ashamed that I do not remember that second, but can still feel this way.

He kissed me first more than a year ago. I have had my heart broken in different ways and on varied levels, but I have never once had such a lasting ache. I look back on that year and all I feel is the gravitational pull toward him.

He kisses me now, a year of longing in the past, and it feels as steady as I wished.

Before I was like yarn. I was no longer tight knit with naivity and he came into my life and with one kiss I started to unravel. A year of unravelling left me a mess. And when he came back into my life he did not realize what he had done. He looks at me peculiarly and says I'm strange, like I have a secret that he wants to figure out. He wants me to open up. He says I'm complicated, addictive.

He looks on the beautiful mess that has been waiting for him, that he has influenced the creation of.

I feel like I am being pulled from every direction. All my being orbits without any organization and the second he holds me it all comes together and I couldn't feel more at peace.

And I am afraid he is a liar.

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