Here are all the things I want to tell you about:

The oysters I had in South Slope tonight that were so good and

and

that's all I can think of right now, but I really want to tell you about them

because I started really loving oysters when I started having them with you.

I used hardly any mignonette but I

I still don't like the briney kind.

I regress to writing poetry, like I did when my heart was broken

but my heart is not broken.

My heart is full.

I just miss you

and you are just not here

not enough of the time.

And it’s not a referendum on me, or what I can or cannot do, or be or give, or something I maybe used to think, that it was

that it was me.

It is not me.

And I don't know yet if it's you.

But I can’t tell you because I won’t tell you.

I hope we work out.

I have even thought what if we got married and

what a story that would be and

having met you my first day in New York,

it’s romantic if you don’t count right now and I

I can tell you about the oysters. I can text you.

But I wrote on a sticky note not to

even if I love you

(and I don’t know if I do)

from the bottom of my unbroken heart.