1.3.2019

To My Peter Pan (2019)

Thinking about how your eyes drip kerosene. Caramel. Dark and light, hard and melty, all at once.

I love the person I think you are. Sometimes I don’t know whether to romanticize you or humanize you. I guess a little of both. It’s been so long now, so much has changed. I bet you can still write me better than I can write myself. And we have that unspoken bond, forever shared. 

I still think about what you’d be like. Late at night, sitting across the room from me in a dimly lit hotel room with a mug of coffee clutched in your hands. Chipped china mugs. I can only imagine the conversations we would have. I have a mini-lifetime’s worth to catch you up on. Still, I’d give anything to have that moment with you. Vulnerable, broken, beautiful, exposed. A lifetime's worth. 

Oh, I’m not in love with you. But I can’t fucking forget you, and I hope you remember me. Remember me fondly. I’m not the girl I once was. I’ve become hardened by the world and the passage of time. But I know you would still get it. You’ll still get me. Rip my heart out. 

I am not in love with you, peter pan, but my love for you is exponential, reaching some deep part of my heart that I can’t define. But when I reminisce about the intensity of moments and thoughts shared, that part of me swells so big, so pervading that it’s impossible to ignore. I know they think they get it --get you -- but I’m a step ahead. It’s a special understanding, more tangible in a strange way. It reaches a place so deep in me I’m not sure I can even get to it, but I know you’re always with me.

You know what this is. It’s never-ending, eternal. It’s neverland. Still my peter pan; always your wendy.