We sat on some estranged porch, on an island occupied by tourists and locals alike. It was strangely set up like a western film’s town center on display, either strategically or through the contents of my idealizing mind. We rocked, in our wooden chairs, maybe for quite a short time. Long enough, though, to hear your stories, long enough for your thoughts to impress me. I wanted to hold your hand the entire time.

The afternoon ended too soon, and my apprehension dimmed alongside my curiosity. Every encounter with you is new, I thought, in the most undeniable way. How can it be that I feel as I am re-learning you, every compounded hour. Slaving over tiny details of your mood, stance and expression to have just one non-juxtaposing constant. Your inconsistency has become my stronghold, allowing me to let go or hold back on queue, if you demanded it. Most of all I think I want you to be mine. And moreover, I, yours. In such a complete way that it is unfathomable, insufferable, and thus the most horrific scare of my life. But for now ill lay down my futile heartache for our small intimacies, an afternoon in the sunshine, and unspoken glances of love.