4.

Dear Things,

I want to do you.

I want to do you in the most licentious and reckless way, and then - cards meet table - I will probably want to do you again.

We are in a kinetic recession and I cannot afford inhibitions.

It is always so easy at the end of a good day to swear by you: I will do things. I will rise before the sun, go on a morning jog, cook real breakfast, and then maybe write a fantastical novel and travel to Greece, or some other place where it is an acceptable hobby to get lost; rinse, repeat. Adventure Is Out There, I will rejoice - bumper sticker bold.

You come in more forms than I can recognize, and every time, you give to me. Mischievous and playful, you bleed innocent mirth and the warm promise of analgesia. When you beckon, it is a dance, and if you are a tease, then you are the most beautiful one I know.

But I am sorry, too, because it is never about you (whatever you are) or even what you give me so much as what I take from you. I steal your drive in the form of electric soles on my feet and hard-stuttering limbs. You are the surge inside of me, feather light and absolutely directionless - just out, forward, above, now now now. When you are new, you turn me into the very best kind of fear, hot and demanding. Suddenly, I am six heartbeats ahead of myself, and six minutes behind schedule, and I love you.

I love you for the way I do not notice you at all. On slow mornings, I notice around: cold raindrops on my eyelashes and strangers across streets who might as well be across universes. On fast nights, I notice nothing at all but the way doing you - any you - owns me. With you, I am belly laughs a little too loud and glazed eyes not nearly absorbent enough. I am flushed spirits - the easiest air.

I only wanted to write for myself, but you beg me to do for myself, too.

Fine, then. A pleasure to make your acquaintance... We'll be in touch.

3.

Dear Self,

I know it hurts right now. He sped away on the train 48 minutes ago and you felt yourself break the moment you stepped out of the station. You walked in with him and walked back out alone. Believe me, I know how much that hurts.

But you need to remember that you have no regrets, that every word, every touch was real and true and beautiful. So even though you are breaking (and yes, this is breaking-- you can feel the hole, the tear), know that you walked into the station the same way you walked out: loved.

You sit wiping your nose now, feeling the sting, and letting the song you used to think was heartwarmingly sexy wash over you, dulling your hurt. You realize how easy it is now to pick out what is real and what isn't, (and this is oh-so-fake), now that you know. And you smile, because even though he is still gone, and you can literally feel his absence, as well as the pain that comes with it, you know you have him to thank for this new insight, this new little discerning superpower.

This makes you feel close to him. And goddamn, if that isn't the most beautiful thing.

Love,
You, from a better place