I have all the time in the world, and I’m going to love you slowly.

I’m going to love you like when I was a little girl and you were on the edge of teenage disaster, but you were still a boy.

I’m going to love you like when I was a teenage girl loving the world, and you loathed every bit of it, on the edge of losing childhood for good.

For years I did not remember your face. Neither do I now.

23. You touch my hand, I stand between my parents, and you are lying on the couch watching football. I notice that you have taken off your socks. Wondering, I correct my image of you as you are now less haggard and thin. You look healthier. From the couch, you reach me your hand as well, take mine in yours. It’s not a handshake. I don’t know what it is.

Electrifying. You try idle conversation with me; you help me with the computer while I make blunt jokes and only manage bubble gum laughter. When you’re standing beside me, I turn 14 all over again.

Something dies in me when you say you have to pack your stuff and leave.

Sometimes when I’m there you don’t show your face anywhere and you don’t talk to me again like you did once, throwing your unknown soul at the hands of a strange, vulnerable thing. Gripping me, I can feel a terrible emptiness and sadness. There are things I cannot speak out loud, invisible webs trailing the buildings of the living. And I don’t know you. Not really.

You told me you see the same thin lines as I do, and that you are longing for the same thin lined answers in the dark. But within you, I cannot see any light.

I have all the time in the world, and I’m going to love you slowly. Maybe I’ll never tell you.

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