Do you remember me? Probably not. We only met once. I thought you were nice, helpful. I didn’t know then that I would let you burn a hole into my brain, tugging at the synapses (a lurch of the nerves, gut, heart). That you would come to me in dreams, silent. That I would become sick and supple in your hold.
We are not so different, we two, except that I wish I could be more like you. Maybe you would think the same thing about me. Maybe you are doing the same thing, following.
I see you are Beautiful, intelligent, caring, thoughtful, interesting, graceful, above all else (and I do so yearn for grace). Maybe it’s only your words, your images. The impression you make.
I should let you make a graceful impression, instead of a stinging welt: “i should stop comparing myself to other people.”