I have had this fascination with wondering if anyone is writing about me. It generally comes along whenever I am admiring someone random who is living without knowing that I am thinking—going beyond thinking, writing—about them. That I am floating in someone else’s memory makes me want to remain afloat. Some people whom I want to know they are being written about:
You are my inspiration to keep trying to be inspiring.
My love for you is to the moon and back, making it officially taller than you.
Never have I wanted to be matching with someone more (in all senses of the word).
I think you know more about me than I do, but I’m glad that it’s you.
I’m just really glad to see that you still have your Nordstrom-employee style wits about you.
Your name means “bliss” in Sanskrit, if you didn’t know.
You changed me.
I’m so glad to look like you on the inside.
Thank you for taking me seriously since seventh grade.
Dear Mrs. R.,
You said you wouldn’t forget, and I think you have, but that’s OK.
You are beautiful.
Dear Mr. M.,
I’m sorry. ♦