I'm glad I called. It felt good to get that stuff out, and to hear some
of what you're thinking and what your having to go through.
I'm sorry for sounding like I or anyone have any 'claim' to your time.
They don't, I don't.
I forget things, like the way you're having to get through CompSci 15
without the benefit of a chummy relationship with Prof.Couch, and running
smack into the reason I took as few math classes as possible...
But of course I miss you. I miss being stuck in around the edges,
studying in the Campus Center, tucking you in right before bedtime.
I guess I was kind of churned by the way Thursday worked out. I was
looking to it as some kind of beautiful perfect reconciliation, and
otherwise being my typical besotted self. And while it might've
beautiful, nothing's perfect. The moons waning now, you know. Still, I
really missed that Thursday. Especially when prospects for an evening of
what Thursday could have been look so dim. (And as romantic as a crowded
football game with a tuba wrapped around me is, it lacks that certain je
ne sais quoi)
Hey- think about this- that was the exact same field we were lying on our
backs on looking at stars so long ago, you and me and Eva.
"Can I get some hits? I need those hits! Hit me!"
BUP-bummm BUP-bummmmm BAP!
-James Brown and his horn section, "The Payback"
I'm still dying to know what you would say to me in a note of the same
scope as the one I sent you.
Tell me you'll do this one thing: if you ever realize that something's
changed, that even if you had as much free time as you wanted that you
wouldn't want to spend more evenings with me, either because of something
i am or because of something someone else has become to you, that you'll
tell me. If you promise you'd tell me, not hope that I'd figure it out
for myself, I can be calm and know that it's not true. I've never had
feelings for anyone as long as I've had them for you; I've never known
anyone who can touch me the way that you do. Not knowing if I've lost
contact you for good is something that's always been on my mind.
(also, you're right, a very little e-mail will go a very long way in making
me less stressy and whiney.)
I sometimes get the urge to write you the most erotic stuff, like
rec.arts.erotica kind of stuff, but the good r.a.e. stuff, not the cheesy
"9 inches plunging" kind of stuff.
I was showing my mom my homepage and the blender (mom always read the
wrong things- it's strange watching your mom read a sex scene you've
written, and having her suggest 'underclothes' would be a better word for
'underwear,' and her being absolutely right.) She really liked the fireball
metaphor of life: Life is like an atomic fire ball candy: once you get
past the stuff that hurts it's pretty sweet. I had forgotten about it.
Don't stress. Life is beautiful, you are too.
Nothing'll happen this semester that you can't survive.
You're someone who knows to watch out for herself.
Sometimes I dream of your breasts and the curve of your back.
I still have a calendar for you.
Chocolate, chocolate, sex and chocolate.
-O\O Kirk Is Romance dead? Nah. Visit the BLENDER OF LOVE
( = ) firstname.lastname@example.org http://www.cs.tufts.edu/~kisrael/romance
"Love is two crickets hopping in the same direction" --W.T.Vollmann
That field reference is strange, some odd night freshman year we spent with
her stepsister on the otherwise deserted football field..I was a little surprised I could beat
her in a footrace. And we look at stars, with her head on my stomach. One of those times
I might've forgotten without a record like this. (Now I'm generally better at keeping
journals and things.)