My sun

It seems as the episode begins to wear off the fog starts to clear and my feet are slowly gracing the ground again. I saw him tonight. The ‘realistic’ one. I’m so in awe of his demeanour, so able to float through life without a worry, always with a plan always knowing, never breaking. He compares me to my cracked iPhone screen as we sit across from each other in the pub. ‘Broken’ I say as I sip on my vodka soda. I stare at him deeply, more deeply than I’d like him to see, but I can’t stop it. I can’t help that whenever we are together I feel like I’m home. We throw insults at each other across the table and I laugh. I haven’t laughed in a while so the normally of it all makes my head spin. He has such beautiful eyes. ‘I’m not oil painting’ he’d always say and I scoff to myself because I’m almost certain he could be a Picasso, or a Matisse and then I’m unsure if they even paint with oils I just think he’s a work of art.

We met a while ago now, in a place far away where the air smells like salt and the sun never stops shining. But here back in dreary, grey England he is my sun. Lighting up my melancholy life with his dickie jeans and beanie hats.

He’s shaved I notice, I almost hate it when he does because I love the small triangle of hair that grows just below his bottom lip. My traveller boy, the one with the strong mind and strong grip. The one that holds me anchored to the earth as if when he leaves again I’ll just float away into nothingness.

But he has to go soon and I keep trying to convince myself to leave too, go somewhere else, somewhere warm where maybe I could find another him to cling to in his asbsence. To cling too until the day when maybe he decides he wants me.


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