Oh… being alone and drunk has me thinking of… you.
Calling you a friend feels almost like it’s not intense enough, but saying you were my “lover” would be an outright lie. You were a mourning man, and I wouldn’t dare ask to bed you— I wouldn’t dare to even kiss you; I didn’t want to.
Then what are all these feeling I have about you? Like I lost a part of my soul with you? Like I was meant to share a headstone with you? Like we were a continuation of some beautiful eternal dance?
… maybe it is not something that I am meant to comprehend, Georges. But I hope you felt the same way as I do…