Tissue Letter

I was fixing up my room today when I came across this table napkin.

"

I've used up all of my writing space on the scrap paper that I've brought and I'm now resorting to writing on a table napkin. Talk about having issues. The need to write with nothing much to say... What do you call that? I want to write until I lose myself in my own words... Until the words lose all meaning and the syncopation of it is all that matters. Boom boom boom... Keeping up with the beat of whatever it is that you're supposed to keep up with during these times.

I lose, because I don't have rythm enough to even distinguish the beat. I can't even spell "rhythm" correctly the first time through.

Ah... Love. Ah... Nothing. I've lost my rhythm. I am Edgar Allan Poe in that I can't write when I'm not miserable, but when I am, I'm a genius.

I've lost my eloquence. Ever since you came, you've put a smile to my face... Given me a reason to just smile... But you've taken my eloquence. Now I can't even write properly. I'm writing on a table napkin hoping it'll get better.

But no...

You still make me smile.

...And I still can't write.


As Always,
D.

"

Funny thing, I'd forgotten that I wrote this and it was like I was reading it for the first time.

Funnier still, I've forgotten who I wrote it to...