Falling.
It's an amazing feeling, falling is.
It's just like flying, really. Flying. Falling. They sound almost the same.
Though, I suppose, when you're flying, you know things. You know when it's going to end and you know where you'll be when you stop. I suppose it's thrilling, being so in control.
But falling. It's different. You don't know. You want to, more than anything, but the only thing you know is that you never will. Until it stops. Then you know everything. You know the no more, and the never will. All of it, it's shouted and screamed and pressed into your head, when all you want really is to sleep, and to see the person you love for the last time, tell him that you love him, that it's all been for him, and nothing has ever not been. You want to tell him that it's always been him, and that everything you've ever done is to please him, to show him everything, and nothing that can be recorded in words will express enough how much he means to you.
I know this. I know it all.
And yet...
Goodbye, John. I suppose we'll never be, and never were.
So if anyone asks me why I loved him and love him still, I'll reply simply that he was he, and I was I.