dear joe...

schmoe.

i have no courage to tell you any of this, for real. and you only read this when we're together and i'm working on it. it's been a while since i've written anything. but now, YOU are ultimately why i'm writing now. what a world, what a world...

you hold me in ways that make me float. and you shouldn't. and i don't know why. i don't want to question you, but do YOU even know why?

signed,
confused schmoe