She… read the letter.
She’s sweet about it. And considerate. Pleasant.
She gets it, and she’s not telling anyone about it.
I get her.
She gets me.
I gave her a yellow flower.
I’ve hugged her three times.
I drew her, and gave it to her.
I hope she doesn’t quit.
I’d me more miserable than I already am.
She lessens that melancholy.
I want to lessen her desolation as well.
It’s not that I’m obliged to, or compelled to.
I want to.
She deserves it.
I’ll paint her a flower. Or two. Or ninety-nine.