Sarah. Finally. Got. Another. Show. My God, I have to watch.
My heart leaps when I see you. That same old violent grace. With joy I can't contain, I cry, “...and this line is still for getting kicked in the face!”
But that doesn't last long. I hate it when they drown you. It's too much. It's not enough. I don't want homages.
I try to love you in another role. To see you as you are. To split one into two. Everything that is Sarah from that which belongs to Buffy alone. But I don't love Bridget Kelly. Nor her paler twin.
My favorite doll. Not Maddie, give me Mellie. I want you at your best. I never want to see you as another. I never will. I'll never let you go.
Every night I have you, exactly as I want you. Every night you are beautiful. Every night you are young. Every night you are mine.
Every single night, the same arrangement. James is burning on the cross as you suffer beautifully in time. The right number of seconds pass before I hear your voice and shudder with the ecstasy of its familiar tone. Those perfect words. “Your soul,” said perfectly. Like always. Every night. My princess.
“To be a kind of man,” James cries as Sophocles wishes he had written, a moment later, “can we rest?” I see it in your eyes. You know. You've always known. That you can never rest.
Exactly as I want you. I will always have you. As you have always been. As long as the world turns. You'll be dancing these steps forever. Not only the same show, but the same performance. Down to the last wobble.