My love for you grows daily.
You make me pound on my key board- desperate to be a pro.
Will your essence please radiate from the space between my fingers and these keys?
I want to dance!
I can't do that either.
When first we met, I admit my love for you was shallow. Attracted by your tragic death and melancholy words, a "sad panda" like me needed a wretch like you.
Then! Your catchy melodies and sound from an era familiar yet before me brought new appreciation and we became friends- the best of them.
I put your songs on my iPod and overdosed.
Now a middle schooler with an object of affection- every letter signed: XOXOXO
But you remained unknown to me. Each album landed in my brain one by one
building a home,
with a basement,
on a hill.
Other outlets satisfy my yearnings from time to time, but you always find me and understand that the lesser things in life are necessary for the identification of that which is grand. And Elliott, our love is grand.
Admittedly, I don't know your works in whole. Pieces that others have fearlessly ravaged remain alien to me. The missing bits will approach me in time. I don't go looking. Is that not the curse of any desperate lover?
I have more than I need for now. Any part of you is more than I hope for in another.
I am in no rush.
Your life may be over, but mine is ideally
I will never claim to be your biggest fan, nor the first to profess my love.
All I wish to say dear is this:
Something from you calls to me,
begs me to push out everything from within.
To write my stories, to tell my tale.
No mater how somber,
no matter how irrationally hopeful,
no matter how naive,
no matter how ultimately disappointing
it can still be:
More than that. It will finally be