Charlotte recently read all of my blog. Even the parts about where I confess my love for here, repeatedly. “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “This reads like a great novel, but the fact that these are your real experiences and your real life makes it so much sadder.”
Lisa likes poems. She likes poems about her. She likes poems I write. She likes poems I write about her.
Recently I showed her some of my older word wherein I use the name “Lisa” to refer to a different friend of mine. “Is that me,” she asked. “And why did you stop writing poetry. Yours is so beautiful.” No, I told her. Firstly, that’s a different Lisa. Secondly, this was two years ago.
But she’s smart. She likes art and poems and helping others, whereas I enjoy lounging around in my bed all day. I wouldn’t mind doing that with her though. She makes me feel… home.
That’s what I told her. The truth is: I’m not going to meet anyone like her soon. Of course, maybe five, ten, fifteen years into the future, but I do not want to think of what could happen. I want to live in the now, with her.
I am smitten. I wish I were a better person so that I could love her better. She inspires happiness. I sometimes wish on my own that I were a better man, and she takes those doubts away.
Infatuation is not healthy. It leads to things like obsession and spontaneity and I getting my heart broke. But she would not mean it. And she would be sad about it.
But I’ll stick around, I said, so that you can find friends. You deserve someone who enjoys you as much as I do, and is not trying to get in your pants.
I’m not though, I continued. I want to get into your head. And your heart. And your thoughts. And your dreams. And I want to make them all better.
-Charlton, 11 May 2019