his name is jackson. we’ve been friends for a few years and nothing else. i think about him all the time.
i imagine it would be quiet. a contrast with his personality. he’s a character. funny. smarter than most. clever. loud, but kind.
i imagine trying to remind him that i’m probably not what he wants. how could i be? he puts his bony fingers through my hair anyway.
i imagine his deep brown eyes piercing mine as he gets closer. i can hear his breath. it’s steady, unlike mine. he has the measured patience of someone who’s ran marathons. the rough hands of a string player. i can feel where the callouses are on the tips of his fingers when he touches me. he’s cold. the skinny ones always are. the memory of someone who knows the past. the voice of an actor, writer, and director whispers in my ear.
“you are what i want,” he tells me, “exactly what i want.”
straight dark hair falls into his eyes which fall on to my lips.
his fingers find their way onto my chin as he slowly lifts my face towards his.
a hitch in my throat.
a pause.
and then the warmth of something that is at once familiar yet unknowable, but everything i ever expected to be.