Dear Tim,
I like you.
You know that.
You know because I tell you all time.
I like you.
I like you.
Cuddle with me!
I like you.
And you like me too.
Well, I hope you do.
I think you do.
I think you do, because when we’re asleep you always search for my hand in the twisted tangle of whipped cream sheets so you can stitch your fingers together with mine.
And because when you took me to Forks, we stayed in this tiny little motel room with wood beamed ceilings and free HBO. You cranked up the heat and the air in the room got really thick with warmth. I was so sleepy remember? I felt intoxicated from this cocktail of dim lights and electric warmness and dizzying happiness. So you just let me sleep. And when I fell asleep you were always touching me. You hooked your leg with mine and brushed my back with light fingertips. You kissed my forehead really soft over and over with just your lips. And I just slept.
And the night before? In Port Townsend? I got drunk, Tim. You did, too. But I rapped Nicki Minaj for you and it was embarrassing. I made you sit there and be quiet and watch me rap all the words to “Feeling Myself”. And you did. I rapped all the words without messing up and I winked on cue and when I finally finished you laughed at me and gave me a kiss.
“Good job,” you said.
Oh, all of you feels so good, Tim.
On Thanksgiving, I told you I was thankful when you hold my hand in your pockets. It’s that I like touching you. I can’t keep my hands off of you.
I told you that I was grateful for long drives beside you and dinners across the table from you. Grateful for your Smashing Pumpkins CD and for when you pull my hair back to look at my face.
And I meant it. I mean it.
Because I like you.
And you make me happy.
And I don’t just like you because of the you things, like the way you comb your hair or the outfits that you put together or when try your hardest to impress me by eating pho with chopsticks.
But it’s me things that I like about you.
Like, it’s that I didn’t smoke pot last night, Tim.
And maybe I won’t tonight, too.
Because I don’t need bedtime bowls when I sleep with you. When you stay with me, I just suck you in instead of all that smoke.
This exhilarating inhale of all of you that I try and hold in to me as long as I can. It’s intoxicatingly delicious. This drag that is this smell of flannel sheets and hot coffee and mens deodorant and Malboro cigarettes all in one. And I love it. I can sleep.
And you know what else?
It’s my clearer skin and whiter teeth and shinier hair.
It’s not that you made my smile two shades brighter. I know that.
But it’s this special attention I pay in taking care of myself because I know you like it when I curl my hair and when my mouth is minty.
It’s not being embarrassed when I’m in-between bikini waxes or telling you that I’m on my period even though you’ve planned this whole romantic weekend getaway for us in Port Townsend.
And if you could only know the struggles that I’ve had with eating.
The fad diets.
The juicing.
The not eating.
But I ate a burger and a burrito and sushi in front of you, and I don’t even care.
This morning you brought me coffee in bed. Two big mugs and a French press. His and Hers. And you know that’s all I ever want, right? Coffee. And you. I even told you. I said, “All of my dreams come true.” Remember?
I really hope I don’t fuck this up, Tim.
I remember when you told me you weren’t interested in being with a rude person.
Well, I’m not interested in you being with a rude person either, my dear.
But what about me?
What are you going to do when you find out that sometimes, I’m a little bit of a rude person?
And what about all the other disagreeable things about me?
Maybe when you learn, Tim, how much pot I really smoke, then you wont really like me anymore.
And I over-salt everything. Did you know that?
You want to travel with me. And I want to travel with you, too. But did you know that sometimes, I have a bad attitude? What if you knew that the reason my brother and I split up in Bangkok is actually because I was such a misery to be around?
Fuck. It’s really hard to tell you that.
But will you still take a chance with me?
When you learn how much I actually really hate dogs and ranch dressing will you still like me?
I really fucking hope so.
Because it’s not only that I really want to buy you chai tea lattes and kiss you at red lights and never stop touching you.
It’s because I was going to come to Seattle and be a writer and tell stories about tall evergreen trees and garlicky steamed clams. Things I don’t know about.
And then I met you.
And you are things I don’t know about. Being intimate and romantic and shared are things that I don’t know about.
You’re my first boyfriend.
I never knew before that liking someone so much is red hot cheeks and nervous giggles like how garlicky steamed clams are balloon chewy in your mouth and beautifully briny on your tongue.
And what exciting things to try and describe.
Sometimes we lay in silence and it isn’t frightening. I’m not ignoring you and you’re not ignoring me.
You’re just thinking. And I’m just thinking. I’m just thinking of all these wonderful things that you are and how can I explain in words that when you laugh, it is as magnificent as Disneyland fireworks?
What technicolor adjectives can I use to sufficiently describe your eyes when they look at me?
Your skin is creamy.
Your breath is velvety.
Your gaze is savory.
And what are you thinking, Tim?
Are you thinking about all the places we could go? Santa Barbara? Italy? Antarctica?
Are you thinking about how good it feels when I push you as deep inside of me as I can and moan in your ear when we’re having sex?
What are you thinking about, Tim?
Nuttin’.
It’s ok.
You don’t have to tell me.
But you can if you want to.
You know that, right?
I think you do.
I hope you do.
Because I like you.
I like you.
I like you.
Cuddle with me!
I like you.
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