I don’t want to come off as strange, seeing as I’ve only ever laid eyes on you once and on a drunken night. I don’t know you but I’ve already lost this fight. You see, without even meaning to my hands have started sculpting art out of the thought of you. You’ve taken my mind by the chokehold.
I have a confession – the other night I had writer’s block and couldn’t sleep, and out of curiosity, maybe even magnetism, I searched the web for your music and stayed up for a good part of the night listening to it. Afterwards I couldn’t help but touch myself. My fingers went from my lips down to the dip between my collarbones to my bare chest, and I closed my eyes imagining I was anticipating your touch and went further south. That’s exactly how you made me feel – inspired – and afterwards I couldn’t put my down my pen. I know I don’t really know you but you’ve got me writing poetry about how good your hands would look all over my skin.
It’s not just that I’ve written poems using you as my muse, fantasizing how you look when you sweat and what your voice would feel like against my neck, but I find myself drawn to you and your rare, creative, and authentic nature.
I know I don’t really know you, but I guess I just want to be around you. I want to swim in each other’s thoughts maybe under a sunset or beneath the pale moonlight of the city’s sky. It surprises me, there must be something about your energy, because I find myself annoyed with most people, I don’t really like many of them, and I don’t have many friends, but you sound like a chorus I couldn’t find myself getting sick of, and I don’t just mean your songs.
I wouldn’t mind it, being in a room alone with you, getting to know you, opening myself up, even though I never do. We don’t even have to touch, I just find myself intrigued by you. I’ve never been more curious. I want to know more about the man I hardly know who has taken up space in my notebook. We don’t even have to touch, but I want to know you. We don’t even have to touch, but I’d love to exchange thoughts, I have a feeling we speak the same language. We don’t even have to touch, unless it was organic, unless you wanted to, I have a feeling I wouldn’t mind. Call me. Text me. Let’s open a bottle of Cabernet up sometime.