I sent you my address, but I don't know if you'll ever write. I'll be waiting on the steps before my door for the mailman everyday to see if you do. There're several things I get in the mailbox... bills, credit card applications, and magazines that I'll never read, but I might look at the pictures. Sometimes, when I'm really low, I order something. The cost is forgotten by the time it arrives at my doorstep, and as I unwrap it, it feels kind of like Christmas again. Even if it's not what I hoped to be, it's everything at that moment as I discard the box and the packing peanuts. Your letter will be like Christmas to me, even if it's full of criticism or layered with, "It's not meant to be." I almost don't want to cut open the envelope, afraid I might endanger the contents or whatever romantic inclinations might be waiting in pen and paper. It reminds me of high school and the girls who'd pass notes to me, sealed with kisses in sparkling lip gloss that read things like, "I'll meet you in the stairwell," and "did you ever really love me?" Some of those found their way to the trash while others rest in shoeboxes not to be opened for another ten years as I wait for a cold, lonely afternoon to draw them forth again. And where will yours go? I guess it all matters upon what it says- one page or one word, it matters not. It becomes my bible and will stay in my possession, at least until I lose faith. I miss your voice and I fear I might hear it in your words, drawing me closer to you even though I still can't touch or grasp you. I just want to hold you, amidst the rainy Chicago evenings as we ignore the Deathcab for Cutie in the background that I just never got around to deleting. And maybe I'll ignore the pessimistic feeling as I tear open your parcel and embrace the scent of you in the paper, or the touch of it against my skin... the places that you touched it at, noting where you smeared the ink with your pinky as you wrote me. Maybe I'll fall in love with your handwriting like it was the first time I'd ever read the written word, as composed by your beautiful hands... your fugue of footnotes that mean nothing but, "I love you," in so many words. And maybe you'll just say it, what we've been thinking and feeling- I say we, because it's something that you and I share, a quality which seems all to rare in my emotionless demeanor and the way I forsake everyone in my presence but you. Tonight is the third of July, but at Navy Pier, you can see the fireworks like it's tomorrow already. I am no patriot, nationalist, or advocate for our world but I love the bright explostions in the sky- the ones that I feel when you speak behind pillows or when your voice trembles for your nerves. You might even call it the butterflies. So when your letter arrives, assuming you ever send it, I have no doubt that whether or not I'm happy or sad as my postal worker seals it behind the metal door of my mail box, that upon unsealing it I will be left speechless.
It's been three days but it feels like I've been waiting for you all my life.
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Vulgar
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