And When He Catches Me

I Barely Notice Colors Unless I Taste Them. Not The Yellows Or The Greens. I Taste The Deeper Blues. The Darker Reds.

Breathtaking, Adj. Those Moments When We Kiss And Surrender For An Hour Before We Say A Single Word.

Love Is Tied To Truth. I Think Of Them As Unhappily Conjoined Twins.

That Strange, Twisted, Torn Love. That Conflict Between What Your Heart Knows Is Right And What Your Mind Is Told Is Right.

Why Is It So Much Easier To Talk To A Stranger? Why Do We Feel We Need To Disconnect In Order To Connect? If I Wrote "dear Sofia" Or "dear Boomer" Or "dear Lily's Great-aunt" At The Top Of This Postcard, Wouldn't That Change The Words That Followed? Of Course It Would. But The Question Is: When I Wrote "dear Lily," Was That Just A Version Of "dear Myself"? I Know It Was More Than That. But It Was Also Less Than That, Too