Shoplifted these words from...

...there.

Dearest Mr. X,

(I'm having dreams about you...)

I know everything is always the same. I know I always tell you the same things, using the same words. There is nothing I can do about it, it is unavoidable. It has not changed, I guess it never will. When something does not change, how can I express myself differently? The only thing left for me to do is scream(aboutyou) and try to see if I can call you back to me, if I can make you concrete in my house, my purse, my shoes, everywhere. But you are never real. You are, but here you are not. Here you are madness, here you are fever. And my body aches, my heart skips beats. So I go on with my monologues, trying to see if talking to myself I can reach you, can whisper in your ear.

And I have this habit of thinking everything I see in you is about me -- this habit of mirroring everything I feel when I am here, locked behind these doors, me, my secrets and you, this scent that just does not go away. I read and I think and I conclude that it is always me, just like here it is always you, always you, even when it could not be you, it should not. But it is. And I cannot help it. That is what I said, you are insanity, you are fever. And mirrors.

There is always this longing, there is always something inside that screams (screamsaboutyou) your name when everything else is silent. Like a disease, a curse, there is something, there is you and your presence, everything that will not fade.

I know there are times in which we do not talk (dowereallyhaveto?) for a while, but, in a way or another, it does not matter. There is a silent communication, some sort of morbid telepathy that connects me to you and that just will not me be free. But then, at the same time, I allow myself to be possessed by this ghost, by this obsession of what I could have had, of what I can have one day. It is almost like hope, like a dream, like a desire that will never be fulfilled, maybe that is why I cling to it so often and so desperately. And then I think to myself and ponder if everything is worth it, if I am not hallucinating. But then the fever comes back and my body aches, screaming your name, saying that however much this may hurt me, that such pain is what makes me alive, is what makes me breathe. Living and longing for this desire, for the day in which we will talk again, that day in which I will not be able to let you go again, in which I will talk for hours, and I will be drunk with your presence, swimming in your aura.

I'm having dreams about you. Wannascreamaboutyou.

A.