You sound like I wake up in the middle of the night, a somnambulist, who deadwalks to my computer to write.

You sound like me bleeding quietly in the dark. You are like me saying everything I am trying so hard to drown inside of me in the day time. Things so profoundly sad and lost on their way. Things that are stuck in between “want to tell you” and “never mind.” Things, words, that have that nauseating quality of needing to be said anew even though they’ve been said enough times for you to roll your eyes.

In the morning I have no recollection of any of this.

I go sit at the computer and open a blog in the hope I’ll find fragments of me in other people’s writing. You think that’s pathetic. But it’s really quite a comfort to know there are so many like me, looking for themselves, finding others. Looking for others and finding pieces of themselves, stuck like old chewing gum under someone’s boots.

There is evidence of me in your words. And especially in the words of others’ you choose so carefully to depict the montage of your state of being. I wear my heart on my sleeve and you wear your tongue on some random stranger’s Tumblr page.

You know you sound like my head. You sound like my words inside someone else’s mouth. I wish it was your mouth. I wonder if I kissed you, I’d find what I really needed to say nestled softly beneath your tongue.