A little too late...

I once sat across from you every Monday and Wednesday in our literature group. We talked about Dostevesky and Camus when our professor came around, but mostly we talked about our lives and how we spent our time. At first, I didn't notice you much; you were just another guy on campus with nice Italian leather shoes and freshly pressed slacks. Then the more we grew to know each other, the more I noticed how your eyes were the color of forest moss and your hair was the color of redwood bark. I loved how you smiled to one side when you were being genuine and how you rolled up the sleeves of your button-up shirt to show off your volleyball physique. I loved how you weren't ashamed to admit that you had read Harry Potter several times and went to the midnight premiere of the movie just like I had. I loved how passionate you were about the things you cared about the most and how you spoke your mind without worrying what the rest of us would think. And I loved how you walked down the hall after class with your bag slung over one shoulder as you watched the floor tiles passing beneath you. But most of all, I loved the way you made me feel: alive again.

In those last few weeks, I left class with a smile on my face and a hope in my heart that maybe you felt the same way I did... but I never did anything about it. Our last day together ended with me leaving class, taking one last look back at the person who had awoken the flame in me that I had long thought went out in a wisp of smoke.

I slowly fell right into you and by the time I realized how much I needed you, 
you were gone.