:://for p…

do you realize that everyday when i come home, there’s some funny story i have to tell you which only you’d appreciate? and yet when i go to reach for the phone, i mentally count up the days it’s been since i called, and the weeks it’s been since you have.. and i put the phone down, dashing off instead to write one of the letters, which now litter my room, remaining unsent. some speak of small victories and triumphs, over unfair biology teachers, writer’s block, impossible odds, or just the social hierarchy that seems to determine daily life. some, of despondent moments, insecurities, defeats, failures. some tell of the happenings of the day, which only merit being shared in order to learn what your reaction to such things is. and yet, as a rational being, even as i write these–i cringe and stop and think. what sort of a girl am i, to be writing or thinking such things about a boy who carries only one mere thought among a million, of me. i wonder if you’re the person i once knew, or the person i’ve composed in my mind. but i know better than to ask.


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