So Much

Writing to you comes in fits and bursts, but don't misunderstand… you are always on my mind. There is never a day that goes by that I don't think of you, that I'm not wondering what you're up to, how you're feeling, whether you're having a good day or bad, if you could use a hug, if there's something you'd love to celebrate, what you'd like for dinner, what could I do to take care of you in this moment, could I make you a cup of coffee, could I draw you a bath, do you just need someone to listen to you for a bit… and on and on and on.

But sometimes I look at all I've written and I worry. It's a bit much. How would you feel if you came across it? It's a bit obsessive. A bit over the top. A bit… much. So I step away. I take a break. But all that really accomplishes is keeping all of this pent-up inside. And I don't stop, I never stop thinking of you.

And then I remember… in the absence of your voice, in this very stark reality I live in where I don't get to just talk to you every time I'm aching to know what's happening inside your head (so, like… all the time), I realize…

I devour your words. Finding a sentence on Facebook is like stumbling onto an oasis after a week of wandering the desert. A whole paragraph, and suddenly I'm a starving man at a feast. Doesn't matter the topic. The words you write for yourself. The ones you write for work. I have an insatiable hunger for your thoughts, in whatever form I can get them. I've read and re-read your tweets — all four of them, from half a decade ago. I simply cannot get enough.

So if I stumbled upon a cache even a tenth of the size of my pile of letters to you… hell, even if it wasn't even to or about me, just… your words. Essays. Whatever. I fear my heart might simply melt, my lungs would stop taking in air.

And if they were to me, even just a tiny handful of them, those products of that beautiful mind…

sigh

Still, though. It's an awful leap to think that you might be even half as crazy as I am… And I've been writing a lot this month.

Well.

Even after this I'll be two letters shy of the most I've ever written in a month, and there's only two more hours to go… so. Maybe it hasn't been too much, after all.

Maybe.