I wrote a letter tonight. It was about everything that you were. It went on and on about how that vacant (thoughtful?) stare shot feathers through my stomach. That still image, that tiny reflection of light in your eye that meant the difference between passing you up... and a dizzy blur. Oh, and it WAS dizzy! I felt sick. But I would've gladly felt sick again just to see that reflection of light turn to me. That was a sickness I only dream I could cure with a touch...



I wrote about the rain and how I loved to walk in it and let it envelop me... only to make believe that every raindrop were your fingers... (I wish it would rain). I'd lay in the street and close my eyes and smell everything. I'd take it all in. I'd open my mouth and taste...



I wrote about everything I never knew, and somehow it all became clear. I never lied about my foolishness though. No, I keep that with me everyday, taped to my forehead, as a reminder... a reminder that I'm human enough to feel this thing. Life. Love. I can't escape it. As much as it hurts at times... I just can't escape it. But at least I know the trade off... a smile, a handshake and a kiss... tingles all over.



I wrote and I wrote. Good lord! I wrote a lot. A book! A love story! Before it ever happened. It's already happened on the page. Have I just wasted everything I wanted on a series of papers? I never even knew you. Only your image... and a few of your words...



Damn... that sucks...



So... I never sent it. Here it lays, in a drawer in my desk, never to see the light of day again... Unless through my eyes.



Man... random beautiful women just aren't good for my equilibrium.