I’m going to fall backwards onto a cliché and let it carry me. I’m going to dictate, a monologue of boring, badly put confessions. I’m going to tell you that your eyes sweep me up in a hurricane of mixed-up pleasures. I’m going to tell you that when I wake up and see you lying beside me, I have to turn away because I forget that I’m living my own life, and not some picturesque movie version of it. I could get up and brush my teeth and get dressed and drink my coffee and still not believe it. I’m going to tell you a lot of things, all about me and all about you, and you might get bored and yawn and rub your eyes but in the end I hope you’ll understand.
I hope you’ll understand that those three words that are so unforgiving and so overused can be the most important ones at the right time. I could write about flowers and skies and models and kittens. I could write about something that’s not you. but you smell like flowers and your eyes are the color of the skies and none of the models are as beautiful as you and you’re allergic to kittens so I’m confused and I’m embarrassed and I’m sorry that you’re all I think about.