tryst

It's getting worse.
You don't know what -- but if I told you, you wouldn't understand. Not really.

I'm consumed with the thought of him -- but the thought of him that is truly him -- nothing bought, fabricated, concocted, or imagined. He is him, and that is all -- and that is more more more more than enough.

The busride back to Richmond was torturous -- I just sat there. Every time I saw an attractive guy carrying bags or boarding the bus or buying a soda, his face crept back to me -- pulse quickening -- formless thoughts thickening like blood in my eyes.

But -- there is nothing in my eyes.
I can see.
(I can finally see).

But -- there is such a thing as too late, and there are tragedies, catastrophies, and sick twists of fate. Sadness, failure, despair, and desperation -- those are real -- Love and need are relative but real. Affection is innocent. Longing is torture. I am deliriously happy, and totally depressed simultaneously.

I probably have not crossed his mind.
Like I said, there is such a thing as too late.

I'm very very fond.
Of him.