Dear Seattle,
It's approaching late, past my bedtime, but I've been sleeping a whole lot the last couple of days and so I can't quite wind down. I've been looking at you, Seattle, at all of your lights, and I've been making up stories for you that probably aren't as interesting as the ones you're actually living.
Nights like this are the ones when I miss having roommates--the constant potential for watching movies or making cookies or impromptu dance parties.
Cecile wanted me to collect whatever I have of my French notes from when I was in school, but the side effect of keeping everything is that, you know, I keep everything. Seriously. College papers? Directions to the house of the boy I had a crush on senior year of high school? That story from fifth grade about the princesses that played zithers? It's all there, and every time I even open up my filing cabinet my whole apartment is perfumed with the past. I admit that my self-confidence has been more down than up lately, and I unthinkingly let myself fall back into being uncomfortably fourteen tonight. I feel wide open and freshly harvested, and if you were to come over right now I'd probably hug you for twice as long as would be appropriate.
It's raining and not snowing, and one might say that the recent flurries have spoiled me. I may be demanding snow for weeks to come.
Oh, Seattle. You are keeping secrets from me, you coy creature. But maybe if I watch for long enough I can figure them out.
love,
me
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