I'm looking through your books, but there's nothing I want to read. I'm sleeping on your side of the bed, but it doesn't smell like you any more. It smells like me. And dammit, I want to touch you and I can't. You are the person I think about, even when you're here. The thought of you turns candlelight into fire,
pure and wild. And I'm mad inside because you won't
find the words to tell me. Nothing is your fault except being so
close to me and yet not running away. You can tell me things about myself and I listen because I want you to keep me. Keep me near.
Questions. It is always questions from me. And I long to be solid in a good way, not some bovine caloric way, ticking time that's already past, thinking only of how I've failed. It is almost midnight and likely you are sleeping and hopefully you won't read this until I've fixed it, though it can never come out right, because everything's too soon and not what I mean at all.
What I'm trying to say is that you build a fire in my bones and I'm yearning to be burning beside you tonight.
But it's all wrong. Too poetic, and trying too hard. Maybe there are no words for it. Wouldn't that just kill me now, to feel something and not be able to put it into words? You've cursed me. I've read about all these books I want, and I have no clue what I will do for the rest of the time but soak up someone else's good fortunes, written out for me in glossy paper with models wearing pansy clothes. You're no pansy. Where are your boots?
I have written poems and letters to every guy I ever thought I loved and yet for you I wonder if I am ruining it, if you will not be able to own it as it owns you, as it has held me captive.