It's times like this (week, I suppose), that I really wish I had a better bead on you. I wonder whether or not it would be beneficial to see you in person and have the opportunity to talk to you one-on-one. Read your expressions and mannerisms as I try to find my voice.
I often think of writing you with a million different things. Questions and rants and musings and remembrances. But I can never decide whether or not I want you to read them. Or whether I want a reply. I suppose, truthfully, what I want is the perfect reply without ever sending anything in the first place. A confession that you need that piece of me too. The friend you found across from you that night... when the clarity hit that we were the same.
It waxes and wanes but never disappears... just as it never drowns me completely. Sometimes it is only a whisper tickling my throat for months on end. Other times it is a thunderous roar that vibrates through my entir