I think I'm scared of him.
I leave already missing him, itching for just a little more time. I want to run back, throw my arms around his neck, just hold him close. I want to sit with him, I want to ask him what God is, and what he believes in, and the last time he prayed. I want to know where he'll be in five years, ten years, where he'll be when he's dead. I want to know why people have deja vu and if he's ever dreamt in color. I want to tell him things I don't have words for, trace the lines on his palms to see where they lead. I want to peer over the bridge of his nose, look into his eyes, and see if I can find the memories that he lost.
I want to open him up and understand him. I'm scared of someone else figuring him out before I do.
But I can't do any of these things. I bite my tongue.
I think he'd be scared of me.
