I like writing about you. It’s the only way that I get to keep you. You’re not mine and you never will be. But these words are. The recreation of you on this blank page is mine. I can feel your hands and taste your mouth whenever I want to by rereading what I wrote in those moments. My name stays on your lips forever. I can hear it. This page won’t find someone new and I don’t have to share it. It’s loyal to only me.
You can be whatever I want you to be here. I can combine my favorite moments and make an ultra intense version of what we’ve shared. Your hands go right to my favorite spots and your lips never separate from mine. We can stay in that moment for a minute between meetings or all afternoon.
I don’t have to wait for you here. You’re waiting for me. I open up this page and you live here. Like my willing prisoner. And tomorrow and 100 years from now, you’ll be here. I can touch your face and feel your breath and you’re always as passionate as you were that day. The day I put you here because it was too much. I was scared that I’d lose you — even in my memory. That someday you would fade and I’d be alone. So here you live.