If you wait a month or two, I will be able to write you to the point that you won’t even recognise your own eyes. I love your tanned skin, and your brunette mess of hair, and your long fingers when they tap along my forearm, but when I write you, you won’t see any of this. You’ll be short, with a buzz cut and bright blue eyes. But only in a month or two. If you wait a month or two, I will write you as a fictional character, doing things you never did, saying words you never said. You will only hear a faint echo of the past, entwined within the unreal. You will see a vague mirage, something that reminds you of the person you once were, a forgotten memory that stirs something unnameable inside you. If you wait a month or two, I will write you like a storybook character. If you let me write you now, you will see yourself as I do. I would write you right now, exactly as you are. I will immortalise your perfections, glorify your flaws, with words that reflect everything I love and do not love about you. I cannot fictionalise someone who makes my flesh sing and my back arch, the way you do. I cannot write you false now. I tried, I did. I must write you as you are. You are not a storybook character. You are everything that moves within me. You are real. If you wait a month or two, I will write you false. If you wait an hour, I will write you.