you love the idea that I'd write to you. that somewhere in some darkened bedroom, hunched over his desk, is a boy who is thinking about you. who is opening himself up for you. lining up little pieces of paper and cutting them with a razor knife, trying them against eachother, getting things just right.
i am aware of what I'm doing, but just enough. i love the idea that you might love my words. that the right sentences in the right order and your heart might flush with my emotion - i know when I've gotten it just right. the paper burns hot in my hands and I slip it into an envelope for you, a hundred people touch it but it is exactly for you. you are melted down and mixed with me. I haven't written to you in over a year and we both are still thinking of eachother.
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