I think that by hearing from you every now and again, that that means there’s some chance, you know? You don’t know. You think I’m a fool. I am a fool. I only ever semi-function and I take my tablets sporadically. I feel sporadically and I never ever know what I want. But you would make me happy. Every inch of your fucked-up self. Your fucked-up self would fit perfectly with my fucked-up self. Our lunacy would combine beautifully. I would make you happy. I want to, you know? I want you. And I get so mad at you sometimes. I get angry at you for not being here, not wanting what I want. But when I see you, I’m drawn to you. Maybe that’s the truly foolish part. My foolish brain thinks you feel the same way about me, even when the evidence suggests the complete opposite. I suppose that’s hope or faith or something. But you did. Once. For a minute. Maybe longer than that. Maybe you still do. I haven’t changed. You have. But more and more you are the person I want. You may think I am hasty and silly and desperate and you’d be right, obviously: I am hasty and silly but I’m hoping you find that sort of thing endearing. Am I desperate? Some people love desperately. And I’m not desperate for a kiss or a person, and I’m not desperate for you even. But I want you in my life. I wonder how many good deeds I’d have to do for the stars to align and a little miracle to occur.
And, yes, this is about you.