You said not to write under its influence, so I waited. Now, as the electric vestiges leave my body, and sobriety approaches, I want to let you know that you have moved me in a manner I never anticipated. Last night, I committed your details to memory. I know everything about your skin, from your eyes that change color under different lights, to the wiggly white lines on your stomach, and the way your eyes disappear into a memory when you recount something of particular significance. You showed such tenderness and kindness it blew me out of proportion, so naturally I cursed myself and fled when I saw the chance.

I’m scared, because I am no longer the dreamy manic twenty one year old who had eyes so wide they swallowed a million fairytales and people. But a year of stillness has exhumed that girl and fed her to the breeze. Where she stands, is someone now concerned with building, not another rush of casual short lived excitement. The reason I handed you my phone and you typed your number, I liked your mind and ideas, I wanted to build a professional relationship, and maybe friendship. You ruined that when you let me see how kind you could be. Now I can’t unfeel your hand on my jaw, your thumb stroking my cheek. I can’t unsee you bending to lather and rinse my legs as you talked about a significant loss in your life.

You move me. And by all that is fucked and holy, I think you’re a pretty great kisser. I can’t stop thinking about it, about you. Or regretting that I stopped myself from leaning fully into it because I was afraid you’d see how much of an effect you managed to amass in one night. I left some blood as a keepsake in your house. On the couch, where we’d spoken about the weirdest spots on our bodies, I bled while wearing your dark blue shorts. I bled everything my mouth wouldn’t say, but my core refused to suppress.

You’ll find the shorts on the same couch, where I watched Love In The Time Of Cholera while you slept in the bedroom. When you wake up in the evening and start to clean the residue from the night before, you might notice the patch when you pick up the shorts, or you might not. I wore your T-shirt home. I still have it on, I don’t know how much longer you will linger in its fabric.