Why, why, why am I afraid to talk to you? Social norms? You, being four years my junior? Old enough to drive, old enough to make difficult decisions, yet still too young to love. My head falls at the thought of it. Such a long shot, such a shot in the dark. What would I even say? I’ve tried to gain access once, just a taste. You look wise beyond your years, too young to be pessimistic, too old to be idealistic. Everything you wore, everything you said, your reaction to everything I showed you, pure essence, warm, accepting, inviting; you were not simply bearing with me. All while I was in my drunken tirade, you sat composed and listened. I wonder if I ever slip into your mind, even on accident.
I cannot think of anything I hate, yet you’re imperfect, like all beings. I will take all of you: problems, suppressed memories, depression, habits, pet peeves, I will take it all. I will carry it all, I will carry what you can’t, I will carry what you ask.
What is wrong with me? I don’t know what love is. This is simply the idea of you I’m in love with. I know nothing about you, nothing at all. You’re but an idea to me. But you’re perfectly imperfect to me. Let me show you that in any and every way I can.
Even if there isn’t a way for me to carry your burdens, let me at least gain your attention in conversation. In simpler words, I would love to talk sometime.
(still trying to decide if I should expand this to a full piece)