I've been friends with Christopher for a long time. He's the way I feel when my eyes glaze over slightly and I bend over to write a story... light, half blind to time, not aware of anything but the words in my hands, totally without fear or presence, omniscient and raw. He gives me advice in my dreams, advice that I take because I trust him, me, him, and sometimes when I wake up, in the fog of blinking and looking around, waiting for everything to come into focus, I am not sure if we've actually spoken to one another or if I'd just spoken to the Christopher in my head. He's special in my world. I see him maybe once a year, and talk to him (outside of my head) maybe two or three times a year... we should barely be acquaintances... but again, he's special. I spin out when I'm with him. Everything comes out at once and I tell him things I haven't even told myself... it's good, it's awful, it's hard to be in the same room as him, I always leave disappointed and I'm not sure why... maybe let down that I didn't tell him enough, or told him too much, or fumbled with words when I knew them inside, but they wouldn't come out. There's no balance with him in sight, everything either floats or crashes and it's always too bright. I want to write when I think of him, I want to feel this agitation every second of everyday, it's overwhelming, spontaneous crying, leaning in for a first kiss, vomiting for the third time, burying your dog, running your hands over the chest of your lover, lightly, so lightly, jumping through a window to see how it feels... it's too much all at once and it makes me feel so good. He makes me feel so good, but not in a good way. Good for writing, magical for writing, living through my hands, to touch words in the right order and feel them come out perfectly, but no good for living.
Thank you friend, in ways, for being so good for me, I wish I could see you more often... you help me write.
I've been friends with Christopher for a long time. He's the way I feel when my eyes glaze over slightly and I bend over to write a story... light, half blind to time, not aware of anything but the words in my hands, totally without fear or presence, omniscient and raw. He gives me advice in my dreams, advice that I take because I trust him, me, him, and sometimes when I wake up, in the fog of blinking and looking around, waiting for everything to come into focus, I am not sure if we've actually spoken to one another or if I'd just spoken to the Christopher in my head. He's special in my world. I see him maybe once a year, and talk to him (outside of my head) maybe two or three times a year... we should barely be acquaintances... but again, he's special. I spin out when I'm with him. Everything comes out at once and I tell him things I haven't even told myself... it's good, it's awful, it's hard to be in the same room as him, I always leave disappointed and I'm not sure why... maybe let down that I didn't tell him enough, or told him too much, or fumbled with words when I knew them inside, but they wouldn't come out. There's no balance with him in sight, everything either floats or crashes and it's always too bright. I want to write when I think of him, I want to feel this agitation every second of everyday, it's overwhelming, spontaneous crying, leaning in for a first kiss, vomiting for the third time, burying your dog, running your hands over the chest of your lover, lightly, so lightly, jumping through a window to see how it feels... it's too much all at once and it makes me feel so good. He makes me feel so good, but not in a good way. Good for writing, magical for writing, living through my hands, to touch words in the right order and feel them come out perfectly, but no good for living. 
Thank you friend, in ways, for being so good for me, I wish I could see you more often... you help me write.
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