“You are the smell before rain; you are the blood in my veins”

I sit down to write you a letter. To write you a letter. The words float in my brain all day, and they are perfect. The right amount of funny and honest and clever and intriguing. It’s a poetic letter. Not too wordy, not too cryptic. I sit down to write you a letter. The pen dances in my hand. The sun feels nice on my skin this time of day. I can hear the traffic off the highway in the distance. I sit down to write you a letter; I forget what day it is. The first words come, then more, but already I can feel it. Not quite right. The words knock against one another. My meaning is sharper, more awkward than I had envisioned. The sweater is tight in the wrists and loose in the neck and baggy at the midsection. This isn’t right. 

I sit down to write you a letter. I turn on the tv, and soon you are a distant thought in my mind. Second, third, fourth to the story unfolding on the big screen. 

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