He told me in a letter, the other day. A real letter, handwritten and sent in an envelope. Something that never comes anymore, in my mailbox. A real letter.
I have great descriptions and characters and stories. Which is ironic, because the thing I want most is him. The writer of this letter. I want HIM to appear at my doorstep, his smile to greet me, his shadow to overtake me. Instead I have his letter.
I can't seem to stop, reading his letter. Trying to forge out meaning from his compliments. *sigh*
What he doesn't understand, what he doesn't quite say, is that I wrote great descriptions about us.
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