one fine day

You,

I grow antsy without you. The days are empty and graceless like rolling plains, and I miss you and your words and your virtual laughter. For we don't talk with our voices, but with our words, with our fingers. Through letters, scraps of 'paper'. On screens, multiple. And sometimes, through the things we don't say, for an essential components of our souls are one, they come from the same place.

I hope to plug the voids in the day with books and writing, since you're not around. There's an aching hunger that a story doesn't quite fill, so I seal the cracks with haiku and poetry and conversations that seem to be going nowhere. Writing is a lonely job, do you know who said that? Ask me. I'm trapped in a solitary room and suffocate with the thoughts of more than one person in my mind. They ache, my characters, they weep and I want to go out and find them, put my arms around them and rest a while.

I read epic romances, paragraphs that create entire worlds with brushstrokes so feather-light, and put down the book for I can't breathe for the richness of the mind's eye. I watch travel shows, and see the places we dream about. (We might not have ever talked about Paris, but I know your longing for the poetic, the romantic, the unknown, the faraway. Because it is mine too.) I hear the cocky words of the cowboyboot-clad host and giggle, and think of you and how your snarky mind would reflect them. I see him down shots of absinthe and hallucinate, and wonder, what would I go on a trip about? How would it be if I let me lose myself, for once, just once?

Friends tell me to come drinking with them. I'm afraid I'll become an addict. Do I overthink it? Do I push them away, telling them sorry, no, can't and then waiting for them to call? Is someone out there overtaking everything dear to me?

Maybe this letter is more to myself than to you. But I miss you, you're my... soulmate? mirror? Our conversations are blurring, and I'm sinking into an abyss. I want the smoky oblivion of jazz, piano and sax and a high, sparing voice. You're the only one who understands.

I hate depending on you, this way. Wondering how you feel as you read these words, what you think of me and my stalker proclivity levels, am I pushing too far? Do we have boundaries that are fragile, afterall? Because I've never felt the abandon that I have with you, ever before.

I hate Depending on others, unable to reach me and understand me, wrapped in their grief, prejudice, anger, illness. I hate needing to share every shiny thing that comes my way with someone, and this stupid juvenile childlike wonder I take too far. I want to learn to be content in my aloofness. I've lived in the same place for too long- I want your life, changing constantly and bringing to you a brand of wisdom I've never known before.

I miss you, and it's redundant talking of how we met so recently when it feels like I've known you forever. Re-reading this letter, I think I'm just thankful that you are, a real person. Who will probably read this.

I may be losing my mind, and soon you'll be in the same city as me. Do you want to meet up? Or do you think we connect better over a physical distance?

I don't know, anymore. My throat aches with all the noises I'm not making. Come back come back come back sanity. My eyes are blurring with the print, and I'm tired of the songs on loop. I want to cry but it feels useless.

Come back.