He was a tad too much on the anachronistic side and I was almost rudely schizophrenic. He taught me that touch was a gift only death could bring for me. So I swam through film strips caked with silver bromide, that made my eyes red and smelled the way water does when you know you're going to drown, to leap towards this friend - this world - I was too far from to experience.
He felt my veins bulge - so transparent, so prominent - every time my fingers would mischievously curl into a fist in his luscious chocolatey locks. He would loosen and play with them as he would with stray strands of hair. When I would tell him that it hurt too much, he would say that anxiety is a luxury only the insane deserve. So I decided it was too late to stop trying to stay here and plummeted down faster than I probably should have.
He was more than my thoughts could conceive in a laid out algorithm. He was a slave and a mentor to only my desire. He was too chivalrous, too light-hearted and too much of me for him to be okay with existing. Though he taught me so much, I only taught him how to taunt and question; how to disfigure happiness in a way, even misery didn't resemble the outcome.
He was my almost; the only one who could not possibly make me ache. He would leave when I wanted him to and crawl back to me when I did not feel the need to apologize. He was my flesh hammock on days the sun didn't feel like rising nor the rain wanting to stop. He could insert periods in verbose sentences and say writing was never my calling; he was.
He was not corporeal. And most of him had no will (rather my will) to be. He wished for nothing more than to depart from what seemed like the end of me. He never wanted to be there when it happened. He wanted me to be whole and fixed on a reality that was going to end anyway. He taught me that good things never came to those who wait. In fact, they had to be snatched and so did I. But he couldn't decide which he wanted more; me or my life. He just didn't know that my end was his beginning - his being alive.
He was light of emotion but too taut of looks. His face only wrinkled when I seemed to worry him with my loosened grip on insanity. He wanted me just as tight as the hair pulled behind his head; like the noose hung from my ceiling just as I stepped off the desk. He wanted me his, and I wasn't sure if I wanted him mine. So when our lessons were learnt, we swam in vintage film to a place of more pursuit than opportunities.
He could not show me the difference.