Unsent letter 126#
 ( a mosquito in my heart )

April 20, 7 am. ( what time is it?) it's 7, and I am sitting in an empty terminal and writing.  I am writing you things that I never learned how to say.  ( like?)  Like, now I look for you in others; now I break into houses and steal your likeness. ( And )  And, as I peal back the night's husk seeking inspiration I still recognize your silken corn tossed hair.  Somehow you always made me feel like my shoes were off, but now, now, I wear a jail face and Monday's shoes as I swim through an endless river of uninspiring women.  ( huh?)  Wearing homicide glasses in diagonal rage I see affection at elevated windows.  The affection of inspiration, which shows itself in white undergarments, holding tight the compact limbs from a pear as it crosses the line and hopes for the worst.  ( you're always wishing my life was a lil bit easier than it is )  This is not the love of make the car payment nor the love that sites on the surface of the obvious.  This is the love between the shadow and the soul.  This is the love that you feel in secret, as certain dark things are to be loved.  ( patience maybe???)

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