I look for you in the 140 characters. You're usually always there. A ticker-tape heartbeat visual pulse I can check to make sure you are breathing. I’m always checking. I’m like Santa. I’m like Santa Claus.
There are never enough words, are there? I mean, there ARE enough words but none of them can bridge that gap, can they? None of them are airplanes. None of them true healers. They are only Band AidsTM Look, I will type words now: face, hands, arms, tattoos, breath, blankets, gin, valet tickets, room service, surfboardt. These words mean things and these words are beautiful but these words don’t do shit, Sherlock. They just look back into brown eyes from this black screen and masturbate that tender heart for maybe one minute. Two if I’m lucky.
I can type words all day. And I will. And I do. I will toss these words around like drunks tossing midgets at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day. I will connect words together and add some punctuation. I will hit the space bar and the enter key a multitude of times. I might even use a few emoticons. You know, to add “flavor” and “personality.” I try to be a charmer. I will sign my name. Maybe some exes and ohs. I will type in an email address that will auto-fill because my gmail knows where I send most things. I will hit send and I will refresh until I get bold back. Then I will do it all again.
Distance is a bitch and a fuckface. My life is its twin sister. Try to help someone who lives so many miles away by typing words. It’s hysterical. It’s a fucking joke.
But I will do my best because I can’t not do it.
I will do my best because I have to.