neither was i
1:10 p.m.

Dear You:

I used to be able to write beautiful letters. It was something I prided myself on, actually. I would put words to paper and woo the heart of the world, but not anymore. My love affair with beautiful terminology has ended, and now all I can do is regurgitate hackneyed phrases of love, and loss, and empty midnight bedroom dreams.

Would you let me touch you, I wonder, if you knew what my heart whispers in my ear when you're around?

This is silly. What I feel I don't disclose, and what I scream at the top of my lungs is so far removed from the truth that it's like someone else's outcry.

The world spins. The world turns. The world makes me dizzy with a queasy sense that I missed something while my back was turned. So excuse me for seeming a little distant, a little vacant, a little unaware, but I'm trying to gather my thoughts into one coherent sentence.

Ah, this is hopeless.

Just keep in mind, if you would, if you read this, that my letters weren't always this way. And neither was I.

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