(escapril, day 22: nourishment)

I have a diary.

Actually, I’m on my third now.

Two are filled up, pages crispy with ink and tears and spilled drinks,

Stuffed to bursting with stickers and notes and brown-edged flowers,

Mementoes from child-loves with no idea what they gave.

I am enamoured with people.

I write of girls in pretty dresses, their laughs tinkling, their teeth gleaming.

How I crave their ease.

I write of boys with warm chests and fumbling hands and soft eyes.

Of myself, growing awkwardly into something of a person.

Of all that I long to be.

I don’t know if I love you. I’m not even sure if I like you.

But I like this. I like pressing my forehead to yours in an empty hall.

I like whispered jokes that don’t make any sense.

I like the brush of your pinkie with mine, a maybe-an-accident-maybe-not catch.

I like reading your notes, knowing someone is thinking about me.

I like having something to write about.

I gobble up stories, I devour romance, I sip humanity like a fine wine.

Perhaps a little bitter going down, but oh, how lovely is the afterglow!

Maybe this is selfish of me.

I shouldn’t lead you on a pretense, I know, but I can’t help myself.

My soul craves people and all their problems.

And you- well, you are one extraordinary person.