I keep wondering

if I really want

the answers to

the questions I

can’t stop asking.

I contemplate

writing you another

real letter,

folding my words

into an envelope

and shipping them

to you.

I found your new


which makes me feel

like a stalker

since I’ve had

the other one for over

a decade.

Like typing your name

into a search engine

is as bad as

driving past your window

and peeking through

your shutters,

if you even have shutters.

You probably don’t.

Who still has shutters?

But, that’s how I feel.

Like some creep who

has a file at the courthouse,

one that outlines all

the dirty deeds I’ve

done in hopes that

you’ll mistake my

obsession for

what I really think it is…love.


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