I’m sorry. I…I want to tell her that I am sorry.
I think I act so stupidly toward her because I am in awe of her, intimidated by what I perceive to be the grandeur and circumstance of her life. And because I have fallen in love with her.
I can say that because, as the days and months and years have passed, she’s no less on my mind than the first second I saw her, and each time I think about her, I wonder if she is okay, whether she is happy, and healthy. And I want her to achieve every one of her dreams. I want to be the one to help her do that. I think about her romantically, but respectfully. I want to know what her dreams are and what kinds of things she thinks about, and reads, and listens to. What she likes to eat, and whether she is is a good dancer. I mull over the possibilities of taking a dancing class together with her, or a cooking class. Or Heaven help me, playing tennis with her. Or taking her on a picnic.
And it is things such as these that make me sad most of the time because I simply wish that I could reach out and take her hand and run away with her to a land of dreams, magical dreams lit with neon and luxurious warmth and brilliant kaleidoscopic colors and filled with melodious music. And there would be aquamarine seas and emarald green grass. Or maybe terre battue lawns, I’m not sure. With a breathtaking sunset.
Someplace indescribably beautiful where the two of us could meet each other face to face and escape from the galactic cosmopolitan crush that seems to engulf her and her modern life.
Where she would be be flattered and melt at my affection like a demure schoolgirl.
I ache to be with her, know her intimately, support her dreams and desires, touch her cheek tenderly and gaze into her eyes and let her know just how deeply I care for her. To let her see with her own eyes that I have fallen in love with her.
I wish so much that I could tell her.