i write to you more often than you know. i have whole conversations with you that you are not even privy to. i write you big long letters that share my ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams, feelings, problems, worries, concerns, fears, everything and anything that fills my head… and then i don’t send it. i can’t send it.
maybe i am worried that i will upset you. maybe i’m worried you will not care. maybe i’m worried you will tell me i’m wrong. maybe i’m worried you will not say anything at all. i don’t know.
the more i write to you like this, the more things get confusing for me when we do talk. the line between what i have told you and what i have not gets blurrier and blurrier every day. and this only serves to upset me when you say certain things or respond in certain ways because part of me already told you about something directly related that would necessitate a different kind of response, only you’re not aware that i told you about that.
