Dear Band-Aid Girl,
How are you? I am fine. When you pulled my life close to yours, you were sitting in a cab somewhere in New York City. I felt so powerful that I could have been driving the car. I remember you told me once or twice how awe-struck you are by the size of the seafloor and how so much of it has been untouched by humans and I thought I detected a note of sympathy in your voice. "Me too," you told the seafloor.
How are you? How are you so... hard? The hard days and the easy days are so mashed together in my mind like beans that you taste like working from home. When I've been swallowing ocean water all day and my body feels numb from the cold, it's your helicopter I ache to see as I come up to the surface. Because you could never make a clean getaway. You could never leave me in a silent saltwater darkness, just loud, tumultuous gasping - storms never leave on good terms. Loving and being loved are two different rivers. Sometimes they meet, but eventually they'll both rush into one ocean.
How are you? "How are you so hard?" she asks me, still in shock by the ease of my attraction and my comfort in being naked even though it's been so many times.
How are you doing this? You must have pretty strong shoulders to be carrying this crap around all day. I could write down all of your secrets and they would fill every square inch of one of your white oxford shirts - I have never seen so many closets in one skeleton.
