Ryebread

Dear John,

Really? Really? Really? Really? Oh my god, oh my god, OH. MY. GOD. Is this really happening?

Are we really listening to Leonard Cohen and making out in your bed? How are you such a hot babe? I especially like when you put your beard there. YES, there..... down there. Right there, god.

Ummm, I think I am probably dreaming. I never got on that plane, I never went swimming on the roof, I never snuck that whisky into the bar. You didn't kiss me behind the building, and you didn't hold my hand. I didn't sit on your lap or whisper in your ear. We never went back to yours and we're not actually here lying in bed the next morning. This must be metaphysical.

WAIT. Did I just hear that correctly? You may have written a song about me? You're band doesn't even know? Excuse me, but is this reality? It's a good song too. How long ago did you write this? THAT long ago? Are you kidding? How long have you been holding these fantasies, these secrets? How did I not even have the slightest idea?

I want you to sing it to me from the tops of buildings. I want to fly with you. I want this ocean between us to evaporate when I blow on it. I want to kiss your eyelids when you sleep.

Someday?