If nothing is true, what more can I do?

She… read the letter.

She’s sweet about it. And considerate. Pleasant.

Adorable, even.

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.



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