Here are all the things I want to tell you about:
The oysters I had in South Slope tonight that were so good 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.