Some days I feel pretty. Some days I don’t. Really, to be pretty enough for you would be good some days too.
I have seen you now. I now know what it’s like to be in your head, even for a little while. You’re full of sad things. You’re full of hopeful things. You’re full of funny things. You’re full of everything I want to see and hear and feel and talk about.
I want to tell you that I have felt the same sadness and that I can help you get through. I want to tell you that I would like to laugh with you – not to have something in common with you, but because I actually can and do laugh about the same things you do. I want to tell you that I also long for passionate kisses and hugs that never end and rolling and wresting under the covers on a lazy day.
I want, more than anything, to be able to tell you these things and not just think about them. But I can’t. You’d think me strange.
We have never met.
You don’t even really know me.
But I think if you took the chance to, you and I could actually be good. We could be great. If only I was enough.