Dion

This is for you. I like our conversations; I value our conversations enough that I think I gets in the way of me outright saying the things that I'm feeling. Like you not wanting to shut down our conversation early by saying that you were 'very, very gay'. There are a lot of ways that we're alike.

I'm still trying to get a handle on the morals that this life is supposed to be lived with, or I would have already told you the truth. That I want you to empty a condo so that you can fill it for me, a little at a time. That I want to see the way that you smile when you see something that you've picked out, that I enjoy. Other than that- other than more than anyone can possibly ask, I don't want to ask for anything. I just want to receive them- anything that you choose.

Did I like it, you asked. And you wanting to give me something that I liked eclipsed everything else. All of the things that you've placed here make little pools of peace and home. I see the way that other people are drawn to you, want to engage with you- and that isn't what I want.

I want the engagement- but not conflict. Discussion, debate, arguments and you moving oh-so-slowly so that I'm charmed instead of frightened off. And then I've woken up and the things that you bought me are the only things touching my skin. My entire bedroom now is you- you're scattered throughout the kitchen and the living room. I eat the peanut butter and think of the face that you'd make. I think about what you'd say when I'm reading, or studying.

I think about you- a lot.

My driving force was to not be a burden- to carry the weight of my survival, of our all survival- and I always had to work harder because I was smaller. And I picked up muscle, and skill and scars- and you smiled past all of that because you wanted to talk to me instead.

In drizzling rain at a bus stop that neither of us had any intention of using. I'd walked to this one, marking my distance and trying to remember that the life was utterly different than my old one. And there you smiled, outside of either life, and willing to talk as we ignored bus after bus and you made a deal with me. A deal with an ad on the side of the bus advertising Broadway- it was so alien to me at the time.

Of course I understand that there is something /more/ about you- I would have to be a fool to think anything else with the way that everyone else reacts. But until it comes up in our conversations- until it doesn't matter. Because multiplication is now ships sailing the waves, and there are hidden meanings in movies and I still don't understand hairstyles-

But I like the pleased, vaguely possessive smile that you have when you look at me after it was cut. Like that is the one thing that can be closer than skin. Almost as close as an actual touch.

This all sounds a bit simplistic when I read it back to myself- but I think the thoughts are big enough that starting it simple- is the smartest way to go.

When our debate is intense, I imagine your fingers running back through my hair- like you could actually touch my thoughts to follow them.

That's enough for now, I think.