I’d like to write to you.
I’d like to write to you, but I know that if I start, it will become difficult to stop. And the more I write to you, the dicier things become outside of the letters and the poems. Real life will become messy. I’ll feel like I know you better than I do; I’ll write something so many times that I’ll forget it’s only make-believe. I worry I’ll grow close and you’ll stay still, and everyone around us will feel the imbalance.
I’d like to write to you, since I sometimes trip up in bouts of worry. I fear for your happiness – I mean, just check the statistics. I decide on my own that you need one more person checking in. And I’d like to be that. I’d like very much to be that person for you.
I’d like to write to you, because you seem the sort of person to really appreciate it. You’d let me watch as your eyes scanned the words, and you’d grin quietly to let me know it was real, not make-believe. Your hand would brush my back on your way past me and you’d whisper that we’d talk soon.
I’d like to write to you, despite feeling like I should know better.