I shouldn’t, but I do, and all without good reason, certainly without proof. And it’s too soon, and somehow too late, but it’s true. I wish I could smell you and somehow taste your want for me. I miss something we haven’t even had, and the most fcuked up scrap of it is you’ll never know. I’ll never tell, and for a second you’ll think this is about you. You’ll dissect it, the way you like to do, and then you’ll suppose that one line isn’t about you. And then the pit will infiltrate your stomach at the thought it’s for someone else. Then you’ll feed your fingers in your hair and have hope. And then, that will make two of us… hoping in "vain."