A Man of Infinite Possibility
There is something appealing about nurturing affection for an almost stranger; not even an acquaintance and certainly, definitely not a friend. He is nothing, he is everything, he is the man of infinite possibility, hanging nebulously across the galaxies, doors that have yet to shut.
You cannot call such a thing love, as you may only feel genuine love for beauty. This is a construct, yours; you hold his hand as you stroll across a beach by the Caribbean sea, with gritty sand stealing between your feet, there is one set of footprints- yours.
His pale touch cannot make the roses bloom in your heart or your warm cheek. And he withers and rots and all charm is lost at the touch of cold truth, the one truth, that relationships are never neat, and you shall not walk across the sand with a man that you have not a thousand times conquered, if you have not felt his hot breath on your neck in wild pursuit.
Take that unknowable plunge.