Dear ______,

I really wanted to kiss you the night we met.

We were both drunk and I had smoked way too many cigarettes, but if I hadn’t, I would have gone home and none of this would have happened. You clutched my icy fingers as we wandered the hills of the night. Every so often I would turn my head to observe your profile and speak directly into your ear. Something told me to liken your beauty to a Greek statue. Quietly, you tell me that I am beautiful too. Immediately by default my mind rejects the compliment, that you only said it because I did first, that you were only being polite, but my gut tells me to accept the statement with grace. You didn’t have to say anything at all, in fact I wasn’t expecting any sort of response except Thank you. The next day

You tell me you don’t remember much from that night, so I tell you we said some nice things to each other and held hands and it was really good to experience that sort of spontaneous human connection. We walk around and I thread my arm through yours without thinking, then ask if that’s okay, not knowing if you are the type to shy away from touch. You laugh at me and we walk together onto the bridge suspended by cables above a gorge where we cannot see except the stars and the sound of rushing water. Last night

You guided us the other path home and I think you knew in the moment that this was a dream that would escape upon waking, so when I ask you to take a photo of the pumpkin thief staggering in front of us, you flip the camera and it flashes twice. I think this is when I fully wrap my arms around your waist and you hold me too. I know this is when

I should have kissed you. Just a little bit on the cheek or the corner of your mouth to express a softness that words cannot. But I didn’t. But at least I bummed a Marlboro Gold from your friend in the stairwell and stood right where you were and engaged in talk that felt anything but small. At least we properly hugged goodbye. At most, we’ll see each other again soon.

Letter to someone I just met