My love (light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul-apologies to Nabakov),
This meeting is boring. And my thoughts, as they often do, return to you. What a two weeks, two months, two lives this has been. Who knows why anything happens? I’m so glad you come from a skeptical, rational place, because this supernatural, metaphysical stuff is foreign to me.
Have you noticed how our conversations are so much less about internal things than they used to be? I’m only recently able to step out of myself, ourselves, and concentrate our powers on the external.
Unbelievably, there is still a part of me that is waiting for an unseen shoe to drop, for something to take you away from me. And then every morning I wake up. And you’re there. It doesn’t make sense. But, it happened. It happened.
We’re watching this pseudo-motivational speaker and I’m convinced that the words “unctuous” and “platitude” came into existence so that they one day–today–could be used to describe this man and his unctuous, platitudinal presentation. He literally repeats these Aphorisms For Dummies over and over, and it’s Christian subtext is making me ill. And for a motivational speaker he has a lot of verbal tics (I was counting how many times he said, “You know?” Before I started writing to you 26 in the first 15 minutes alone). I wish you were here. You, more than most, would appreciate how terrible it is.
I’m glad you’re birthday came so shortly after we met. I remember telling you in early April that “if this thing is still happening” at the end of May that I was going to rock your birthday.
I like having you as my focus. When I said I wanted to wake up to you everyday I wasn’t trying to be (overly) romantic. I meant every word. For the past three weeks (minus one Thursday) the first thing that enters my eyehole is you’re beauty. The first thing I smell is your hair. The first thing I hear is your breath. And the first thing I feel is your skin (yes, usually your ass, but that is for another missive of love).
I love love letters. Or, perhaps, I love the idea of them. They represent our best feelings of hopes and fears and futures and happy. And they’re in our handwriting, so it’s like putting it out into the world in a way that cannot later be denied. Not that I would ever deny you. I opened the windows to let your hard rock in a long time ago. And until you say, “Stop,” my default setting is go, go, go! I love you, I love you, I love you! You saved me. Just like you were supposed to. You didn’t let me scare you. You are a warrior. My warrior. My love.
Love letter
My love (light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul-apologies to Nabakov),
This meeting is boring. And my thoughts, as they often do, return to you. What a two weeks, two months, two lives this has been. Who knows why anything happens? I’m so glad you come from a skeptical, rational place, because this supernatural, metaphysical stuff is foreign to me.
Have you noticed how our conversations are so much less about internal things than they used to be? I’m only recently able to step out of myself, ourselves, and concentrate our powers on the external.
Unbelievably, there is still a part of me that is waiting for an unseen shoe to drop, for something to take you away from me. And then every morning I wake up. And you’re there. It doesn’t make sense. But, it happened. It happened.
We’re watching this pseudo-motivational speaker and I’m convinced that the words “unctuous” and “platitude” came into existence so that they one day–today–could be used to describe this man and his unctuous, platitudinal presentation. He literally repeats these Aphorisms For Dummies over and over, and it’s Christian subtext is making me ill. And for a motivational speaker he has a lot of verbal tics (I was counting how many times he said, “You know?” Before I started writing to you 26 in the first 15 minutes alone). I wish you were here. You, more than most, would appreciate how terrible it is.
I’m glad you’re birthday came so shortly after we met. I remember telling you in early April that “if this thing is still happening” at the end of May that I was going to rock your birthday.
I like having you as my focus. When I said I wanted to wake up to you everyday I wasn’t trying to be (overly) romantic. I meant every word. For the past three weeks (minus one Thursday) the first thing that enters my eyehole is you’re beauty. The first thing I smell is your hair. The first thing I hear is your breath. And the first thing I feel is your skin (yes, usually your ass, but that is for another missive of love).
I love love letters. Or, perhaps, I love the idea of them. They represent our best feelings of hopes and fears and futures and happy. And they’re in our handwriting, so it’s like putting it out into the world in a way that cannot later be denied. Not that I would ever deny you. I opened the windows to let your hard rock in a long time ago. And until you say, “Stop,” my default setting is go, go, go! I love you, I love you, I love you! You saved me. Just like you were supposed to. You didn’t let me scare you. You are a warrior. My warrior. My love.
Yours