I feel like I could write a novel for you, or about you, and it would require only a few more days of your silence as a form of assent, to spin it wildly from me. That would be a merciful thing for you to allow, for these thoughts to crystallize- right now they feel like goldfish gently slapping on the floor, always just out of my grasp. How is that possible? My wit never escaped me as it does now, though my self-assuredness has always come and gone. You could be like an anchor, and I could drop you quietly to the depths to bury yourself with the knowledge that I could not (would not) stray far from you.
