The first time we met you approached me, an inaccurate preface to this starting with you asking me what I was reading and if I ever sought solace in lonely places like my room.
Ever since then all I do is think about you.
Now this friendship has grown into a sad display of what I would do candidly on tape to make you see that I could be the right person to turn "you and I" into "we."
It seems quite frankly impossible that my writing would ever affect you like the way you buried me under mountains of mud.
My finger brushes yours and my world is one inch by one inch by one inch.
I write her poems.
I recite them like the man I am.