For P.W.

Five thousand versions of the same thing...

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to send you silent invitations; even now I feel them burning, out of my eyes and towards your face; all I want is to touch your face, as nature intended, but now there will be nothing, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to send you silent invitations; even now I feel them burning, out of my eyes and towards your face; all I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to give you silent invitations. And even now I feel them, rising out of my burning eyes, focused towards your face. All I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to give you silent invitation. And even now I’m doing just that, my burning eyes focused on your face. All I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.


Final (for now):

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more than to give you silent invitation; even now I’m doing just that, my burning eyes focused on your face. All I want is to touch your face—as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.