I wanted to write something cuz it's 2am and I have no friends so pls enjoy <3
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They said Bob was this enlightened one, this... god of literature, of poetry. A genius of understanding and mythological, masterminded verse. The truth is, it was almost impossible to understand a word he ever said. I guess that was the case with supposed geniuses of his sort. But if Bob really could make one realize anything, understand anything, it was the unexplainable feeling of it was like to be there. There, in the room with him, there, next to him, there, touching him, your thigh lightly brushing his as you inched closer to him on the tattered sofa. The fact that he knew you were there, and that you knew that he was there, and you were both there, in some beautiful, surreal way, together. The way the soft lamplight illuminated a chink of his face, the way his elbows rested on his kneecaps as he held the open-faced book in his hand, the way the curls brushed his forehead as he leaned down to squint at its small text, the way his soft pink lips pursed absentmindedly as he became lost in its words... it was, inexplicably, enough to break you into nineteen thousand sharp, small pieces of pain and longing.
Eventually, he closed the book, resting it in his lap. His slim fingers rapped its cover distractedly. He stands up, still as disoriented as ever, and looks down.
"You comin'?"
"Yeah, I'm comin."
Two sets of fingers briefly entwine as you're pulled off the couch and into an entirely different dimension.
