I never stray too far from him; 
his heart lives in my heart.
His pretty face lives on my wall, and in my phone, and my wallet, and in the tattoo on my arm.
We talk a lot. At least, I talk and he listens.
You always were a good listener, weren't you, 
honey? No reply. But I know he's there.
I like watching him at his craft,
and the laughs he gets echo through my mind. 
That's nice, I think.
It's okay that they like him too, but he's mine.
My perfect, piercing prism that sparkles when he smiles and ignites nations when he speaks.
How could I not be proud?
Of such a smooth-talking, religiously polite, utterly versatile and beautiful thing,
person,
man.
So I visit a careful conglomeration of the places he's been. 
I imagine that tall, imposing figure before me, beside me, inside me.
I breathe the same air,
my feet are where his feet were
and he looked at these things just as I am. 
Spectacular. Isn't it?
But I don't need spectacles to be a spectator of this sight.
He is completely transparent and overt in every way;
I know all his jokes, his quotes, his sweet mannerisms.
And I've committed them to memory the way one might memorise a speech.
His taste in music would be enviable if I hadn't collected every song, artist and album he'd ever mentioned, and I play them on repeat until they are my mantra.
I wanted to get to know him, nothing wrong with that.
But then I see someone where I was,
someone else standing where he stood.
She's a frightful example of the ones they call
fans.
Devoted, deluded and insufferable, I'm so sorry you had to see this, honey, they just don't understand 
your boundaries and your privacy.
They don't know him like I do. 
I own every film he's ever made, including that one banned from the country; that couldn't stop me.
I know he only had a seven-second uncredited part but I got it imported anyway. 
Those others don't know him like I do, they couldn't comprehend what we have and hold.
Because I sold my soul to him 
the moment I saw him,
honestly.
He was in Blu-Ray HD, and I could count the quaint pores and freckles
on his pretty pretty face.
The screen meant nothing;
when he spoke, I know he spoke right to me.
Those fanatical felons think they're the same.
A preponderant misconception.
The mere thought of anyone sharing our exclusive connection is silly.
Akin to the often unstoppable force of a nosebleed.
Irritating and sticky-warm; they cling on and refuse to let go.
I'd never do that, honey. I'll never need to.
He smiles at me a thousand times from the collage concealing my ceiling.
We work so well together. Don't we?