Mar. 12, 2004 @ 6:24 p.m.

As you say things and I over think about them, I can’t help but to envision my fingers sliding around yours, dancing little skits on a slippery stage and playing with them as if we were both three years old again. Last night I sat next to you for hours, occasionally glancing over and smiling, having a good time, wondering what you were thinking. Wondering if you were wondering the same thing that I am: “What’s going on here?” When I boldly asked, you replied that you too were in thought but your mouth slid shut as you stopped right there so you wouldn’t explain your answer any further. I can tell you what I’m thinking, but not to your face, so I do understand. You make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me comfortable, and in a good way, sad. My insides are playing one hell of a game of tug-of-war and I’m tired of the charades that have been going on in my stomach, liver and kidneys ever since my brain had this revelation that I'm supposed to be the one you’re dreaming about. Team stomach and intestines are beating my heart and brain four games to none, but I have this somewhat strange feeling that the only rope holding the competitions together is about to be ripped in half by my own teeth, sending everything flying in opposite directions into the soft walls of my interior lining. We’ll see, I’m usually right about these things though.