Dear Splintering Knot of Wood In My Cane,
I’ve been told not to rely on you. Will you please at least sign to me you feel the moisture my palm seems to sear imprints into your head for me with? I’m horrible at reading minds and trusting gossip, even when it’s in my favor is very scary.
I want to call you “my girl.” I feel like a boy who dropped his glasses, hearing them shatter beneath his foot. I hope for flattering words to be whispered between us. “I like your hair.” “Really?”
Shyly blinks as I nod “Yes.”
That is the speed at which I wish to start at with you. Holding hands and squeezing as thunder booms might hint to the passion we feel!
I have recently shared the scent of your handkerchief with the k9’s. I like things explained to me when I am unfamiliar with protocol. Try speaking softly. Go ahead, purse your lips. I’ll dry my eyes. Hurry! Hide!
