"My memory loves you; it asks about you all the time."
I think I am insane, so I’m probably not.
If I told you how I was feeling, it would be screaming and breaking everything in sight. So when you ask me how I am, I’ll just say I’m fine, and you won’t believe it because I don’t either.
I could spend my whole life wondering about yours. It would take nothing to imagine what your room smells of, who you believe you are and who you actually are, if you ever make love, how you like your tea, if you even like tea.
I pray that something does not have to be real to still be meaningful. Maybe slanted perceptions are better than truth.