It's been a while, kid.

I met you and thought you were endearing. I certainly never thought you were interested in me, or in any girls, for that matter. The girls in Hoboken met you later and said you couldn't stop talking about me. It was the most flattering thing I'd heard in ages.

Two nights later, you leaned forward giddily and kissed me in the back of the van. I kissed back, in the van and in the stairwell and on the rooftop in Brooklyn.

"You know, in Boston, I was watching you dancing by the stage and you looked back at me, and I dropped my cigarette. I thought, 'Shit, that cute girl just saw me drop my cigarette. I'm such a dork.'"
"I didn't see that!"
"Now that I've told you, I'm going to have to kill you."

It's been weeks and we've only traded a few emails. I've plotted out the distance from my house to yours -- nine hours and twenty-five minutes, depending on traffic. You'd think I could at least fall for someone who lives somewhat close to me; one who wants to talk to me as much as I want to talk to him.

You're a good kid. Don't shut me out like this.

It's been a while, and I can still feel your lips on mine. I can recall the exact temperature of your hands, and the precise smoothness of the old t-shirt you wore. Your warm breath in my ear. Your eager, curling fingers. I slip into reveries while eating and typing and brushing my teeth. I daydream about you at the dinner table while my dad is talking.

I wonder if you still feel my lips on yours when you pause. Do you recall exactly what the skin on the small of my back feels like? The tickle of my finger tracing the f-hole inked on your forearm?

(It'll be our secret.)

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