I'm sitting on a beach lounger at the once-glorious Hyatt Regency Cerromar. It's sunset, but the cloudy sky hides all orange and reveals only purple. We've spent a few days together at my family's timeshare after we met on Myspace this 2006, where we immediately became fast mates, as you people say. I've given up on explaining to my friends that there's nothing going on between you and I, and that I actually like your girlfriend very much.
I'm watching you throw your flip-flop in the air and catching it over and over as you leave footprints in the sand. I chuckle to myself, at 6'2 you're like an oversized kid. We're in tropical paradise, but home is mundane. Instead, you are what's exotic (I'm a sucker for your accent, among many, many other things). It's dawning on me that I'm suddenly overwhelmed with happiness which must by why these tears are trickling down my cheeks, and like that song from The Kooks you yourself introduced me to, I—alarmingly, trepidatiously, bitterwsweetly, powerlessly, giving in—realize this is love.
You will not, cannot, correspond.
I've never felt more like myself than I have since you arrived.
I'll never come back here without thinking of you.