I wrote you letters.
They were sturdy and delicate, drawn out in long-form, drafted in my mind and recited over and over and again until the cadence of each word synchronized into a pulse louder than the ones running through my veins.
I would repeat them to myself, marvel at how well the characters of my thoughts wore the garments of my imagination, and then cast them out to populate the blank page before me.
I wrote you letters.
They were intimate portraits of my state of mind, a view through the looking glass; did you see much of yourself in me? Did you think my words might be your own but for the distance of our years?
I wrote you letters.
They were an invitation into the brothel of my soul. Here, everything has a price and I sold each word to you for a cost too little to be noticed.
Until it was too late.
I wrote you letters.
Will you write me in return?