Monday, January 17

sincerely


Dear (I forgot your name again):

I only think about you when I dream about you and I only dream about you when I'm crazy, so I don't know what that says about You-And-Me, except that we're obviously not going anywhere good.

I mostly crash and burn when I try to have this conversation with anyone else. I hope you're following.

I read the most amazing things last night, had the most amazing nostalgia about the look on someone's face when they kiss you for the first time and how falling in love is more about a smile than sex. The eyes widening, mouth open in a soft "o."

Do your hands feel numb when you think about me?

There's a dead yellow rose on my desk that helps me remember that nothing lasts forever. Eventually we all wilt and decompose and there's not really any part of us that really survives, at least not in a way you can touch. You can't touch a feeling. You can't touch nostalgia. Memories are not stable matter.

Am I making any sense here?

If not, I guess I know why you weren't The One. If you know what I'm saying, then I have no idea.

Signed, sincerely,
Me.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

*hugs*
where are you?
~libby
smile on the outside

January 25, 2005 at 7:59 AM  

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