I keep trying to write about you, and I keep failing. I don’t know what it is. I can’t seem to get the words right. I try to explain that… well that’s just it. I can’t explain it. My pen hangs in mid-air, refusing to connect my thoughts to the page, refusing to let my feelings out of their cage.
Maybe I’m afraid. Understand, I’ve been here before, twice, actually. Neither time ended particularly well, so I guess my hesitation makes sense. You see, the second I start to express these feelings on paper is the second they turn into romanticized… mush.
“And our portrait will be painted in the clouds so that everyone can dance in the strokes of our kisses and learn from the slightly off colors of our palette.”
I really wrote those words. I thought I was in love, and that, apparently, is quite inspiring. I wrote something like that almost every day during that time. It didn’t always make the most sense, but it sounded nice…
Anyway, I think that’s why I can’t really write about you, Roo. What I feel about us is simple: happy. We’re friends, and we grow closer everyday–I like that. Learning about you is somehow teaching me things about myself, too. I appreciate that–I appreciate you. And sure, I could come up with some similes and metaphors about how it feels to hold your hand, or make you laugh, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to turn you into an unrealistic fantasy. I think for once, I want to slow down. I just want to feel what I’m feeling for as long as I can feel it until keeping it to myself is no longer an option.
And then it will end.
And I’m okay with that, but for now? For now, just know that I like you. And while we will remain nothing more than friends, I hope that you like me, too.