was never quite aware of how often my metaphors and images run through all that i write, until she (you) was reading words of mine that somehow resembled words that were once mine until given away to her (you). nonetheless, those words given away in foolish envelopes were (are) genuine. a night spent at your house with the only end being my embarrassment and your somehow seeming annoyance. myself merely a distraction. you leaving starlit yard (without looking back) while i enter parked car, to these words:

i believe in desperate acts, the kind that make you stupid - look like a fool.

how appropriate. next day, and i see you on street. heart jumps and i nervously with eyes on the ground slink past. no eyes meet, and i feel fifteen. how enfantine of me, but embarassment reigns supreme. i'm sorry. but i could never tell you. i could never tell you. repeated metaphors don't mean that the message relayed in that ship couched in a bottle isn't true. and i still want to kiss you again. but you'll never hear it from me...