Make love to me

I used to think I was deeply in love with you when I was thirteen and you were seventeen and I used to think all those nights over the phone or the window chat were the perfect way for you to show me how deeply you felt me as well. I used to think our love was one of those people write about, saying first love is pure and magical.

And I am twenty-one now and I know I was not in love with you but I believed so. I did not love you, but I do know now that I admire you, I admire your strenght and resilience. I admire how well we both pretended to love each other.

And I am writing this now with an ache in my heart because it has been years since I did not even thought about your lips or your pale face or how you always used a hat but last night you were all over my head and I remembered so clearly, so vividly, so painfully the way we did not used to love each other.

And I saw it: how you touched me without even touching me, and how you kissed my whole body from head to toes, how you held me in your arms and pressed me against you and you told me you loved me — and you fought against many obstacles to show it off — and you, and you, and you.

How you made me smile, or how you put meanings into many songs by dedicated them to me. How I saw you, for the first time. And heard you, for the first time. And how since then I watched you read many books near me and I did not had the courage to talk to you so I chose to wrote a clumsy and cheesy letter.

I saw how you looked at me.

So yes, maybe I did not loved you. And I know you did not loved me either.

But I dreamt about you last night, so please, come here. Make all this kisses, and moanings, and me holding the sheets until I reach it come true.

Come here and make love to me just the same way we thought we were making love to each other years ago.