2002

a relationship goes two ways:

It’s kind of dumb, but I want to talk to you all the time. Like, all the time. Which is annoying and needy and very unrealistic, because you have a life outside of our audio messages and sporadic phone calls. But I wanna talk to you. I want you to talk to me. I want your mouth to run a mile a minute and make me laugh until I’m crying. You’re always so good at that. You’re my best friend, my confidant, possibly my world. So we won’t make out in the back of taxis. As long as you hold my hand through crowds and send me another voice memo the next morning, I’ll be okay. Because I wanna talk to you. And I want you to talk to me. And you’re my best friend. And I love you. (In case that wasn’t obvious.)

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

I hope that someday when I am gone, someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks: