sometimes, i just need to sit back and write about you. not what we never were, not what we could have been, but just you. your hair, your eyes.

that’s what i fell in love with. with you. i had this perfect idea of what you should have been inside my head, and i clung onto that, but you weren’t supposed to be important. no. never. but then you were everything i had imagined and more, and i guess i fell in love with my idea of you. my idea, my thoughts, gracing pavement, sitting in front of me.

and you were perfect.

you were third trumpet, out of i don’t even remember how many, and you were from that other school, so i knew that i would never see you again. but that’s all right.

because i had you once.

i had the idea of us once.

your hair was brown and so were your eyes and i wanted to count the freckles splattered across your face, nose, cheeks. you were quiet, always there, listening, while your friends chattered on. you were quiet, and serious, and you played trumpet, and somehow that just made it all okay and better and perfect.

so even if i don’t have you right now, i have the idea of you, the idea of perfect, and the sheer fact that it’s possible helps. some. because then the thought that i could have kept you comes back.

and then i’m right back where i started.