I love watching you awkwardly excel, so brilliant and just a bit goofy. The year I first imagined what love would be like, I was imagining what it would be like to be loved by you. If I could have you, so I believe, I could be worthy of just about anyone. But it isn’t my number you dial nervously, not knowing for certain if you are ready to hear my voice. And it isn’t my hand that you hold nervously as we watch a summer blockbuster, shivering in the dark theatre. I’ve grown up a bit, or tried to, and I’ve found a lot of people to hold me and tell me I’m beautiful. I think of you less and less, but every time I do, an unsilenced piece of me aches for the dream I carry. I wish I never thought of you; I almost wish we’d never met. I hate that I want you so much, and that I probably always will. You are a dream that hurts more than a nightmare, but when I close my eyes and find you, I don’t want to open them. I’m plummeting through the clouds, horizon spinning over my head, chord unpulled. Good night, good night, you’ll be gone in the morning, and if I’m lucky, I won’t think of you tomorrow.