I'll keep it to myself. Maybe you'll see it someday since it was all for you anyway. It always was, but you knew that.
Six years later. I'll give you this for now.
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 some dimly lit hotel 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 up 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 that I'm not sure I can even get to it, but I know you're always with me. More meaningful than a couple sweaty hugs and pictures in crowded rooms (although those are good too).
You know what this is. It's never-ending, eternal. It's Neverland. Still my peter Pan, forever your wendy.