“If the door is open, it isn’t theft
You can’t return to where you’ve never left” – Cedarwood Road U2
Overheard conversation, in a crowded bustling coffee shop:
(Shouting) “Someone like you! That’s what I want, but it’s not you,” he says, under his breath.
“Someone like you, a poetic muse, a loving soul, ready to risk a life, to save mine. It’s not you, just someone like you. Someone who takes care, who loves wildly and fiercely, who cares deeply. It’s just not enough,” he says, under his breath.
“Someone like you, in another form. I’ll take that model instead,” he says. “A more current version, who fits a little more nicely into my world. A little more in reach and less in the air.”
(Silently) “Someone like you, that’s what I want, it is you.”
“Someone like you, who showed me the way to my own light, who gave me a priceless gift, who allowed me to be me. Yes, it’s you. It’s you.”
“Someone like you, a cure, a potion, a drug. But it wasn’t you, really, it was me. I want me, all of me, even if you don’t, or can’t, or won’t. I want someone like me.”
“Someone like me, who loves me for me, all of me.”
They close their books, pack up and head for the door. Eyes shining brightly at one another, they whisper, “until next time.”