She is a diary, a diary you'd never want to write in. One you don't want to read again. A book who's pages you'd never want to turn. She, is a diary that's never been opened.

The shades are drawn in endless daylight, begging the night to fall yet loathing the months of night that will too soon follow these endless months of days.  Sleep does not come swiftly as feet twitch restlessly under cool sheets. The mind relives peaceful mornings by the creek with fishing rods in hand ******* on lollipops and skipping stones. Stones that for others seem to float on the surface, yet, thrown by my young hand sank like the rocks that they were. click, click, click, the beads of the abacus counting time in my dreamlike wannabe state. The beep of the microwave oven jars the mind and the scent of coffee wakes the brain, only to realize it was the sound of the alarm clock and the cupboard does not hold the coffee so loved in dreams yet detested in reality. The solitude of morning, which looks like evening, which looks like night tastes like rotten onions in the mouth you struggle eat with. Remnants of equestrian dreams linger in a hazy head pounding like a basketball across the the court. The lampshade is covered in a purple scarf, giving off just enough light to not have to open the shades.  

Day begins with a gargle of mouthwash that tastes like Campho Phenique

hoping to get rid of the residue of rotten onion dreams that remind you of a life you never thought you'd live.

That vibration you feel. It's like tuning forks ringing through your elbow begging of you for something more. Get me off. Slide me right. Let me see the dirt under your fingernail and maybe I can see the moments of our past. It was scratched up and forgotten about. But for now just answer me. Now. Give me release. I know you don't know who I am. Although I give you promise that I could be your everything. There are 829571 different people I could be. Open your heart and let me in. I'll warm your fire. I'll tickle your pickle. I'll, sell you a get away cruise to the bahas for the small price of your identity. Maybe I'll be you. Sitting behind a desk, waiting to exist in every position you wanted to fill. Society needs you. Like we need you to fill spots many others can fill. You are replaceable. Calling center one O one, let me make you believe you're an individual. Because to me, I have always needed another stud on my heels. Another piece of gum to fill the space between my heart and lungs. Breathing is harder than felling. Feeling is harder than playing dead. When I am dead I still hear phones ring. You're here. With me. Let's do a 3 way call. Maybe we can convince someone we are something better than bones in a bag. Deeper than fossils in poor neighborhoods. Let's make a power plant out of our facts. They are energy, existing in temperature Change within our friction. I'll rub this heart raw until I can calculate who you are. Come inside. Let me change you. I'll show you everything more than a social perspective. I'll show you passion. Release. Let me be your rebellion. I need a cause to start a fire.

You never answered. No voicemail. Only left with extreme wonder of something extraordinary mystery. Wonder of the possible greatness we could have been if you would have picked up the phone.

Sincerely,  

Unknown number