The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row

dear girl with pretty words for eyes and resounding metaphors for lips.




I think I might love you.  and I don’t mean love as in something superficial, as in a love for a plant, a flower.  I mean love.  the special kind.  the kind like when you listen to your favourite song for the first time, love like when you feel the chlorine swim up and down your skin on a summers day.  that kind of love.

it’s odd knowing situated in a different hemisphere.  oh how different your life must be to mine.  you sleep when I write, and laugh when I cry.  do you have a penchant for reading, an obsession with music?  ten dollars you do.

I like tears when they’re gathered in oceans, and you like boys that live in glove boxes.  I like the transition between the moon and the sun, and you like the way suffocation can also be called asphyxiating.

to be honest, I hate the clouds when I read your poetry.  I hate the timing of my pulse and the way my eyes dart, anxious to read whatever storyline is flowing around your head that day.  I hate that my chromosomes don’t mirror yours and I hate that I have to take five minutes to calm down.

I hate a lot of things, come to think of it.




I had school today.  my boyfriend decided to speak with gravel on his tongue and my best friend chided me for arriving late to the swing set.  I came home and waited by my laptop, fingers pounding and hard rive whirring.

it took me a succession of short breaths to write this.




so tell me, in real life is your voice like songbirds on a diet of honey, is your laugh treacle and jam?  I bet it is.  I bet your ribs have delicate inscriptions of love written with the tip of a needle and I bet you count the stars in apocalypses.

was I anywhere near close?

I’m eating chocolate while I write this and the ‘f’ key has become moulded in a rich brown.  I’ll post this and probably forget about it.  tomorrow when I next hit the ‘on’ button, a million ant will crawl out of it.  they’ll run over my skin, some brave ones may even use their miniscule teeth to rip apart tiny shard of my skin.  how do I know this?  it’s happened three times before.

and that’s why I wish I could hear your words spoken, I wish I could songs in person.  I want to hear the candy resonate in your voice and I want to open up each syllable and dissect it until even you become uncertain of what we were talking about.

you are a brilliant person, and if this isn’t intricate love, then I am unsure what is.




sincerely,
the other girl who’s prose will never do justice to real people.