Taken from http://buzzguy.shroom.com/
I haven’t even had that much time to get to know you. Surely the only you I’ve had the chance to get to know is the one you tell me of. The one who saw those crazed days, months, years, fly by, the one who runs, the one who hangs on for dear life, the one who loved, the one who lost, the one who laughs and makes me laugh so impossibly hard. I’ve fretted my mind into quite a knot over you, and it’s the same you that I couldn’t quite seem to push away with as much conviction as I probably should have, should you have turned out to be anyone else. I can’t quite decide what someone like you could possibly want with someone like me – I’m so .. young, I’m so green, I’m so aimless, and it’s all just one big mess that I’d never voluntarily take on.
Yet you do. You take me on with the determination of a gung-ho kamikaze bomber. You’ve taken the insane amount nonsense I’ve given you in an equally insanely short period of time, nary a complaint within earshot; simply that bemused smirk which creeps across your face like sunlight over the horizon, then finally melts away into that musical laugh as I try to tell you what’s going through my mind and end up retreating under my covers. You sit right there in your chair, legs crossed, knee resting against the table, fingers twirling your watch around when they’re not otherwise tucked in your pockets or folded across your chest. Standoffish is what you seem to like describing yourself as, yet I catch you leaning forward and perching yourself on this very precarious ledge, nonchalantly swinging your legs over the edge, cards lain out on the table. You’re ready to retreat into your shell should I so choose to request of you, but that’s not the point, is it? The point is that you’re out here, waiting for me to take your hand, even if this crashes and burns the very day after I step off that ledge with you.
It’s hard to imagine a connection of any kind ever being able to have this effect on me. Yet, when it’s you and I, from the moment you step out of the cab right up until I swoon myself to sleep, the rest of the world quietly fades away into soft focus, my mushy playlist the soundtrack for these ridiculously happy days. It’s some Photoshop-Magic-Lasso of sorts that just neatly outlines you and I, cropping the background away, leaving me lost in your world. Not that you’re going to get that analogy, seeing as you’re the dinosaur that you are, but hey that’s not so bad. Almost every kid likes dinosaurs, anyway. I know I did, and I evidently still do.
Remember that photo I sent you one morning? The one with the silly, ecstatic-to-the-point-of-looking-almost-crazed, drunk-looking expression on my face. (I wasn’t actually drunk, by the way.)
That’s how you make me feel.
I’m racking my brain trying to think of some way to write these words – words I’m trying to use to paint the picture of perfection that you are, yet they’re failing me. Maybe they’ve been used up in one of those long conversations that stretched on through everything and nothing, back around the universe thrice over and threatened to keep on going indefinitely, making it harder each time for me to tear my eyes off your face and go home. Time flies when I’m with you, and it’s probably about time I threw in the towel and gave up trying to put my finger on it, on what exactly it is about you that keeps me going straight back to you, as though I’ve some GPRS device (yes you now know what this is!) hardwired to my brain, programmed – and determined – to end up right back there with’
you, lost and lonely; you, strange as angels dancing in the deepest ocean, twisting in the water. You’re just like a dream.