How could I have forgotten?

I saw you last weekend. We've only met twice, ever, and yet I feel as though I want to move back to my homeland just to be with you. I don't know whether or not you feel the same way. Probably not. You are Christian, and you purport to be heterosexual on the network that you never use to contact me, or rarely. I'd like to contact you on it all the time. I'd like to be around you constantly, when I wake up, when I fall asleep, and to find out whether or not you would irk me incessantly after a few months or weeks.

It's hopeless. I want to stay here or go to Belgium or Germany or Russia, and you're happy in our homeland. How would you cope with my atheism, and what sort of weft would homosexuality and Christianity create? Your life and mine, plashed together. It feels like fate.

I cannot forget how beautiful your face is, how your pale blue eyes gaze out of their hollows, careful and perspicacious, at everything. The upturned D your mouth forms at rest. Your cheekbones, and your narrow, aquiline nose. Your bushy eyebrows. Your dark hair, falling in thick strands, held back by long hairgrips. You look perfect, in your hat that's too small for your head and those trousers you always wear. Diligent hands. How you laugh. It's odd, your laugh- almost wheezing, and then you laugh a bit more after you've stopped, appreciating the joke. You make me laugh too, so much so that I choke on my salad.

Your friend was there, and I wished, almost, that he wasn't. Another heathen like me. He was kind and I liked him, but I like you more. I could have spoken to you all day, let you kill me with laughter, skip along the canal, take photos of windmills that you like and hunt chocolate. I didn't want to get my train back. I wanted to go and sit in a darkened cinema with you, brush your arm, whisper in your ear.

You said that you felt as though you could open up to me, more than with G, despite having known her far longer. I feel the same way. I feel as though I could never lie to you, even though I'm in awe of you. 'Why can't we live like horses', you ask. I make fun of you, but I know the answer. I wouldn't want to live without music, to live without knowing what it is to feel like this for you. A horse, though free of pain, can't feel any of that. If I had hooves, I'd never be able to touch you gently as I want to. I might never be able to anyway, but at least there's a slight chance. However slight.

So I begin to imagine. I imagine that you'd suddenly want to move to Belgium, that we'd find a flat, do all of those things; watching films, cooking, going on walks and bike rides, eventually waking up in each others' arms and arguing about all things great and small. I imagine the ideal. It could happen in the Green and Pleasant Land too, I suppose, or among dark satanic mills. I imagine you telling me why we can't. I imagine me telling you that this feeling, to adore and protect you, to be with you, to be honest and good, that you rouse in me could never be bad.

I imagine stroking your hair when the lights go out and whispering how beautiful you are. I imagine kissing you gently. I want to be gentle, though you are strong, because of the way your eyes look shy sometimes. Because your strength makes me want to be strong for you, and gentle to you, because you deserve it.

I didn't give you a hug on parting. I did when I saw you. I wanted nothing more than to do it, but your friend was there, and I didn't want to hug him, but I didn't want to exclude him either. Maybe he's yours? Maybe you love him?

How can I feel this way when we haven't seen each other more than twice? Coup de foudre.