Open Letter to Second Him
I'm trying this new thing where I put on a random CD or playlist and writewritewrite. I want to see how melodies and harmonies and rhythm and lyrics and themes affect my story. Alter my syntax. Change me . So I'm trying this out and, in the process, I'm drowning in these memories of you and me. And it's silly how much I remember. Like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and when you speak and when you just are . And the way you say certain words with this ridiculous accent and intone certain parts of one word but not the other, your voice filling me completely and raining down on me, making me smile just as every single rainstorm makes me smile, filling me with incomparable joy, never mind the fact that even your nonsense is articulate and persuasive. Or the way you'd always smirk at me; proof that my feelings for you were as clear to you as they were to me, a trophy in a glass case for you to admire or deny at your leisure. I'm convinced you knew the ext...