2004-02-19 || 4:17 p.m.

|| you vs. natural disasters. ||

you're going to get something in the mail in a matter of days, so maybe i shouldn't write about it and let it go (it's like i turned my head for a second and all those words were picked up off my makeshift desk by hundreds of birds. they flew out my window before i could gather them back and arrange them properly, tape them together, and form an approved statement. they're somewhere over the mountains now, heads tucked into the wind, dropping intention and nuance like discarded fur, like bones), but writing a letter to you somehow kills me. i write out your name, firstname lastname, and i feel natural disasters and the permanence of ink and all the distance i swallow up when having a thought about you. so this letter. i meant it to be a very light exercise in friendship. friends write letters. friends write about the little things that would otherwise be lost between statelines and diverging courses: your ex-girlfriend is in the newspaper and i am crazy about leonard cohen and i miss my sister and i made the best dinner the other night; some day i will make it for you. instead all the moony feelings spilled all over the place and what you'll receive, printed up nicely on 21-year-old stationery in an increasingly urgent hand, is me saying i miss you over and over again. there was something about growing pains and plate techtonics, how these sorts of feelings bubble up from the chasms that have split open between us, but i have been informed by you and your mother as well as in frank conversation with close ones that i should keep such feelings to self in an effort to spare you.

the thing is i hate how complicated it is sometimes. that you are where you are and i am where i am and it's all drifting icebergs and the inevitable expansion of planets; you don't know what i look like right now and i can't place the shirt you are wearing. it's just an uncomfortable feeling. that you are the mightiest splinter in my heart and nature is doing its damnedest to force it out and let tissues knit back together.

i love you very much, secretly. i love you like no one else in the world. and it'll be forever frozen in ice no matter what natural disasters or romantic situations or statelines come up.

it's just an uncomfortable situation.

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