I don’t know anything about the world you live in. I don’t understand it, and it fascinates me. I know about revolution, but not rebellion. I don’t think that I’m in love with you (that’s another story), but I’d like you to pay attention to me. And I guess it isn’t your world that I’d like to understand, but you. I want to know what you really mean and what you really want and what you’re really thinking. Do you want to know what I’m thinking? I’d tell you, but you can just look: I wear on my sleeve sometimes. I’m not very good at subtlety.
In books or poems they’d say, “But really, we’re the same.” But really, we’re not the same – you and I, I mean. We live in alternate universes, but I’m sending you smoke signals through the stars, yeah?
I’ll never stop owing them milkshakes, but I don’t mind. I’ll never stop talking, and I hope you don’t mind. I get mad, but not at them.
I like secondhand stores because I think it’s nice that everything has a history there. Do you think those clothes have separation anxiety? Abandonment issues? I have those things sometimes.
I don't know how to explain who I've become. I'm just this person with lots of hair and a big truck and I'm happy.
I actually have wings, did you know that? Real ones. They're made of sunshine that shines in February, but I just don't know how to use them yet.
I think that someday I will be able to fly.
I don't know what this is, but it's a-okay.
All my love,