corrode v.
I spent all this time building a relationship. Then one night I left the window open and it started to rust.

In 100 years we’ll all be dead. That’s kinda creepy, if you think about it, but what can you do? We are all here, now, feeling these things and saying these things, and if these pages sit on the bedside table or the bookshelf, traveling through time at the speed of time, gathering heat and light, and arrive, years later, in the hands of a reader—perhaps even you, dear reader—then hurray for us. We love you, we do. But there’s this space between us, always this space between us. We’re stuck in our skins and singing, and no one really knows how long it will take for the sound to reach you.

I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.

If we were logical, the future would be bleak, indeed. But we are more than logical. We are the magic ghosts called human beings, and we have faith, and we have hope, and we can work. You should write down your sorrow. All of it. Fill the dead sea. Leave it behind. Don’t wait for it to come up floating.

I can’t fake happiness. Happiness and pure joy are for people who can dance sober.

I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.