Love stories

I sometime wonder if things might have gone different, like maybe we were meant to meet on the 42 bus, but my head was in a book, or maybe we should have bumped into each other at that gig, but you didn't fancy it in the end. We had a couple of years where we could have run into each other in the same city, but I don't like to dwell on what could or should have been. We fell in love over lockdown, hundreds of miles apart instead, and although this love isn't what you would plan or long for, it's been beautiful. I knew I was in trouble when we first met and the pale, winter's sun illuminated all the glistening golden tones in your eyes, when I was visiting my family over Christmas, after I had worked up the (dutch) courage to suggest it at my work party. We were silly, internet friends, sharing music and memes as strangers, until it wasn't just music and memes, it was secrets and heartaches and seemingly platonic "I love you", because you should tell your friends you love them in a pandemic. After months of pretending, we spoke about our feelings, and I was overjoyed to know how I felt was reciprocated, I have no clue what makes you think I'm special. You're overflowing with talents, humour and compassion, I'm in awe of your creativity and willingness to share. You'd write beautiful stories and poems for me in your spare time, crafting a fantasy world of what our life could look like together - laughing, fucking, cooking, parenting. 

We met in July, as soon as it was legal, nothing was sweeter than lying in the grass with you, a safe 1 m apart, not touching once. I still dream about holding you, feeling your warm skin on mine, waking up next to you and planting a soft kiss on your lips, but I wonder if that will ever happen. We're talking less, the complicated bits of our real lives blending into the story book world we love each other in. I cry in my car about it, I adore you and wish things were easier, I want to scoop up the messy soup of you and care for you until you feel safe and stronger. You don't write me stories anymore, I'm trying to be okay with the idea that maybe this isn't forever, but it's nice to dream of the fantasy you wrote while I still can.