Sketches

It's natural enough, I guess, to wonder… Does she think of me, the same way I think of her? Maybe… Maybe I wonder it too much, too often, but I believe that's just a natural side effect of having such feelings for someone who is out of reach, potentially forever, whatever the reason.

And here is where I once again rail against the universe, which has put you so ridiculously close and yet so impossibly far away. The sweetest torment, love.

If I tried real hard, and the wind was just right, I could probably fold one of these letters into a paper airplane and toss it to you, and you'd catch it. And then…

Well. And then, indeed.

There's still so much for me to learn about you, what I know so far is truthfully only the barest outline of a sketch. But the more that sketch gets drawn in, slowly, so agonizingly slowly, the more I want of it, the more drawn in I get. The paper of my mind so thirsty for every last tiny drop of ink it can get…

God, I long for a day where that sketch has become a masterwork, to know every last little facet of you. And to keep working on it, because the best part? Absolutely the best part? Is it can never be finished, not truly… There will always be more to learn about you, more corners of the painting to fill out, because you are ever changing, ever growing.

I want to make it my life's work to capture that, to capture all of it, on the canvas of my mind and my heart. Because It. Is. Beautiful.

And I wonder… do you have a little sketch of me, too?