Flaw Salad

My god, it’s clinical the way I write about you. First this, then that, then something else. Facts in a line. The things that happened. You’re a screenplay. 

He is a poem, and his hand on my shoulder, that one fleeting touch—I looked to his eyes and his great, wide smile, and I felt words and colors spill out, like sickness, like a flood—and his dimples and his voice in the middle of my chest, and I’m living in that moment, over and over and over.

With you, the scene is a flash. It’s words spoken. It’s gestures and expressions. A parade of little things.

He is one grand swirl that swallows and consumes. 

I’ll read you or watch you for hours, but I’ll never really feel you—not like that, not like him—so I put you in the Real Person box, him in the Daydream one, and I wonder if it’s possible to feel something real.