For you.

You commented that my blog doesn't get sentimental enough. "Who wants to read who Lei already is: open for all the world to see on the surface? What really cranks below the surface very few have witnessed." Well, perhaps that's not somewhere you'd like to go.

A piece for you, my critic:

My darling Lei,

You spoke quietly into the stars to no particular direction that you will never need someone to love. I stood next to you trying to silently agree, though all I wanted to shout at the light that flew over in the shower was that I wished it was me you needed.

In comparison, knowing you intimately is like falling through a dream and landing on a bed of feathers instead of the pit of conscious fear that jars me awake when I make a dispassionate attempt of love to anyone else. That the places in which I most want to dwell are between the layers of spirit and skin.

You have the same effect on my focus that seafoam green does. What perplexes me is how you don't see this. When our days shared come to mind, I know I should leave those days to themselves, let them appreciate their own beauty. Instead, my mind always chooses the sadistic path of recounting every glance.

I have become a storyteller that can produce the kinds of fairytales that have no ending, just an infinite sphere of my world without you in it.

Truly Yours,

Lei