dear megan.

dear megan,

i think that we'd be amazing together. i'd write you little letters on post-it notes
and even though we're hundreds of miles apart, i hope you'd write back. when
i'd get them, i'd sit at the foot of my bed and read them by the glow of the
fireflies drifting through my window. i would think of you and i'd sigh while i read,
because you must be made up of harp-strings and six-o'-clock sunlight
(that golden hue would really highlight your cheekbones) to be able to think of
such beautiful sentences.

i hope you'd be able to read my messy handwriting and scratched-out words and
think that even though i'm not as good as you, at least i was making an effort.
megan, i'd be trying to make you happy.
and i know i'll never amount to much, at least, not compared to him. because
when you do find him (and i know you will, because you aren't the kind of girl
who stops looking) he'll be perfect for you. but before you find him, i know you'll have some rough times, and you'll compare your life to the turbulent, stormy sea.
and i expect that you'll need someone there to  listen to you. i'd be that someone, if you let me.

i'd be that someone, because, i think you're going to need to hear that
the ocean is wild, yes, but it's brilliant too. and what i want, megan, is to be the
one to show you how stunningly irridescent lightning can be against a raven-night
sky. but that wouldn't be the only thing i'd open your eyes to.

i'd draw hearts and fishscale patterns on your arms and on your knees while looking out across the wide-open expanse of sky.
i would give you dolphins and moonbeams and teach you how to breathe in starfish and eloqence and show you that the only thing running through your veins
is salt water. the only thing i'd ask for in return is your friendship and if you'd walk with me to the beach to watch the sunset.

thinking of you, i can almost see you walking into some store and fingering the
hem of a lustrous skirt and whispering wistfully, "that color would be so pretty if it were a pair of angel wings." and hearing that, i'd know exactly what to get
you for your birthday. i'd spend all my time with you, watching how you walk, memorizing the melody of your breath, examining you smiling to distinguish
which smile was fake and what wasn't. learning you. (or at least, attempting to.
i don't know how much of you i'd be able to comprehend.)

and what i would do is put all these discoveries into a tiny glass box and lock it up. i'd wear the key around my neck, so that it {you} would never get lost. and then i'd spin all these flax-golden tales into a spool of thread as striking as a supernova.
slowly, little by little, i'd use these cords to sew you a pair of wings. they'd be
a patchwork of tears and darkness, but with shades of laughter and butterfly kisses. and i would help you fasten them on with a safety pin and i promise,
i made them so that if you decide to fly close to the sun, they won't break.

but megan, all i'm trying to tell you is that you're gorgeous and evanescent and i can understand you like a shadow can be pinned to a cork-board.
your work is inspiring, and it'll be remembered long after i am gone. you don't write clichés, but you create them. you don't use metaphors, you just breathe them.
so megan, you are thrilling and exceptional and dazzling and i don't want you to
forget it because no matter what someone might take from you or say about you, you're always going to be
the most beautiful girl in the world.

love,
(yes, love)
               gina.