A letter from Mar 25, 2025

Dear FutureMe, I just want you to read these, I’m sure you will think it’s hilarious. You must know who they’re about. I just wrote them in my notes app while sitting in the sun at school, I just got out of my Dante class. I was thinking it about it for hours before writing them. Apparently, I will die without touching the back of your neck, and it’s the tragedy of my life. I cannot touch you, I cannot say these things, and what a waste. I must talk about your shoulders. So broad and lean. I ache to place my hands on them, drawing down your spine. I can picture wrapping my arms around your front, my cheek pressed against the warmth of your back, inhaling. It’s the clean, airy citrus I have in my mind, and it might **** me. It might relieve me of my agony. And another: What is the tragedy of my life if not the fact that I’ll die without kissing that spot behind your neck, just between where your hair and shirt brush your skin? What else? Do not get me started on your shoulders. I see them from behind. Broad and lean. I imagine placing my hands on each, thick and strong. I feel the fabric of your shirt as I brush my hands down your spine, and wrap my arms around you. I rest my cheek against the open spot between your shoulder blades, and inhale. Citrus and laundry; clean and warm. I cannot touch you, and what a waste!