He’s sitting not ten feet in front of me, emitting the sort of casual masculinity that reminds me of rope swings and the smell of pollen. That boy with the golden ears. And the golden neck. And the golden hands.
It’s easy to think that he’s all golden, through and through, organs and everything. So easy, it’s practically second nature.
When we’ve never spoken, it’s so easy to put words in his mouth. Paint him sensitive or outgoing or considerate or dangerous. Secretly taping a bit of heart-pounding potential to his back without him noticing.
While I sneak around the sidelines of his life, I see something that isn’t there with every stolen glance. I see what it would be like to hold his hand, get drunk on his kiss, let him protect me from every predator.
I can already smell the amalgamation of cologne and perfume as we stand with only inches between us, exchanging intense stares that only Shakespeare can describe.
In my mind he’s none other than the perfect hero with an innate knowledge of Chekov and all the right things to say. He’d build the fort before the war and always remember my birthday.
And yet…
"What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person."
-John Green (Paper Towns) [ßAn amazing book that I definitely recommend.]
-John Green (Paper Towns) [ßAn amazing book that I definitely recommend.]
That golden ear belongs to a person.
He’s. Not. A. Perfect. Hero.
He’s a human with failures and shortcomings and peculiarities. Emotions far from Disney, opinions, and secrets all his own.
He might think holding hands is uncomfortable. Maybe he won’t wear cologne and think Chekov is a brand of foreign chocolate. He very well might never say the right thing and forget my birthday until the day of.
I don’t have creative control of his person. I’m a fool if I ever thought so.
Reality can be a suckerpunch to the gut, but it’s hardly boring. Maybe… just maybe I like it better that way.
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