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.