I had a crush on a girl once.
She had hair the color of a reddened sunset & eyes like blue-tinted glass. She was feminine, assertive, audacious — all the things that were lying dormant within myself. She spoke of eroticism, sensuality, feminism. She influenced me to enjoy wine, to buy lacy underthings, to embrace my inner femininity, a side of me that felt cut out since I shaved my head. She called me nicknames. She inspired me to write boldly & courageously. We collaborated on ideas & encouraged each other’s work. She fed my creative expression.
In my mind, she was my June and I was her Anais.
Thousands of miles separated us, but distance couldn’t stifle our chemistry, our connection. It was instantaneous, my affection for her. I truly couldn’t help it. She was the type of woman that electrifies you, where people fall in love (or lust) just at the sight of her. She possessed a spirit that enticed you, took you in, made you feel comfortable, worthy, adored.
I truly couldn’t help it.
In the dark of the night I would think of her. I filled pages in my diary about her, craving to know every part of her mind. I wanted to be her; to embody her essence, her sex, her light. And in the midst of all of these things I was terribly shy, incredibly apprehensive, for I knew that there would be consequences to my silly, whimsical fantasies. And they really were silly. And unexpected. And improper. And contradictory. But none of that really mattered.
I was lovesick.