The first time we talked, I felt myself light up like a Christmas tree with an excitement I’d long presumed dead.
You started speaking to me about the worlds you’d created, how, soon, you’ll publish your first book, about how I must look for it when you did,
you spoke of the dreams you dreamt and of the oceans in your brain.
You never once stopped during that first conversation to ask me my story but, somewhere, I saw how clearly nervous you were too.
In that moment of being engulfed by your unrelenting voice,
I started feeling at home.
You created a gap in the space-time reality and I
found comfort in a stranger’s words.
I wanted to ask you to come out with me, to the dance the next evening,
fearful of missing out on whatever this was I felt because I don’t know yet how to live with regrets.
When I did, ask you out, you reasoned with me saying,
there was a 50% chance you could be there and that was enough for me to journey the 45 mins it took me to get to the venue, which was coincidentally also where you were staying.
A perfumed and dressed up doll with curled hair and a bright smile, I stepped into the sweaty mob of dancers that night and the moment I did, I knew I’d made a mistake by coming here.
I shouldn’t have come because it just didn’t feel right,
I shouldn’t have come because the moment I started squeezing myself through the sticky arms, blaring music and reeking smell, I realized this was the last place you’d be,
maybe I was a little relieved too though knowing you wouldn’t have to suffer this tasteless crowd.
But I walked, I walked the four corners of the room and looked every one of them in the eye hoping to spot yours and after nearly an hour of awkward dancing with random people while getting jabbed in the ribs by strangers elbows and getting stepped on by shoes 2 sizes bigger than mine, I came out into the balcony.
As I shivered in my flimsy dress, I thought of you in your bed in a hotel room just a few feet away from where I stood and I couldn’t stop thinking about how you couldn’t be bothered to climb down a few steps and have a drink with me.
The next day, I pretended I didn’t go to the dance, I pretended that I didn’t die a little because you didn’t show up and
you asked me what my name was because you didn’t “quite catch it the other day.”
That was the last day.
I tried ignoring you most of it and felt your eyes on me the rest of it.
We played a game, remember? You wrote about how the only girl you’d ever loved gave you chocolates every Saturday of every month and so,
I built you a house out of chocolate and wondered if you’d ever “Hansel” your way over to it.
We never said goodbye, Shakespeare.
Isn’t that what you called yourself? In retrospective it annoys me how easily I overlooked your cockiness.
But that’s the thing about knowing someone for less than a week is that you don’t know them.
You learn that the amount of time you are with someone is irrelevant of the impact they can have on you, irrelevant to how they can bruise you or render you foolish.
And that’s just it really, because even a month later I still remember you, vividly, your raspy voice, your clear grey eyes and the sweet smile mounted on a sweeter visage
I picture the way your words worked around me without you realizing how you’d fascinated me.
Dear boy, I understand, we shall probably never meet again, you shall forget me soon but, now silly me shall forever carry little chocolates in her pocket.