You are like a poet in my dreams, a time-traveler while I slumber, popping up in the places I thought I'd tucked away long ago; Irish coffee shops, grassy knolls, tiny houses swathed in snow, bedrooms filled with books--places I'd imagined us someday, somehow. In my dreams, we are happy. You are smiling. Taunting me behind horn-rimmed glasses.
"How much of it is true?" your letter once asked, "Don't be afraid."
It feels like decades have passed. Eternities since I wandered the bookstore with you. Smelled the paper, rifled through pages. Spines the color of espresso lining row after row of deep mahogany shelves that made me feel like an ancient scholar. You pulled them off the shelf for me, one by one, begging me to read them.
I wish we could meet again. Off school property this time, beyond the boundaries of the grid, beyond the boundaries of a society that cannot see the color gray. The in-between, the what-ifs, the indecisiveness that is often reality. You asked the questions no one else asked. You shared the secret world I had lived in all my life.
All the books I have fit in one box now. I wonder sometimes if you would be disappointed.
. . .
A little flash fiction based off a quote I recently saw: "It's hard convincing yourself that where you are at the moment is your home, and it's not always where your heart is. Sometimes I win and sometimes not." - Jonathan Carroll