Write to me.
In the fog of euphoria and the damp dark of frustration, while on caffeine buzzes and as you run on empty.
Pen the muddled thoughts and questions of curiosity and dreams made in the early morning, the plans that were forgotten in a moment of spontaneous greatness. Tell me stories of fireside chats held with friends. Send me the chapters of the book you are writing.
Write me the poetry I try so hard to live but fail at because sometimes life is coarse, and I cannot seem to find the right words to express those things. Sometimes your words make so much more sense than mine. Write to me of late night thoughts and the things you think about when you are only half awake.
Write me long rambling letters on beds unmade from hours of lying about, listening to the rain, and wooden porches warmed with sunlight and parked cars.
Yours is a soul that resonates with mine is some inexplicable way that is baffling and slightly confusing, but I do not need to understand it, only to be content with the history we are writing on thrifted stationary and graph paper we use for anything but our math homework, stuffed inside maps of our home states and re-imagined paper bags and patterned scrapbook paper.
Please write to me.