"I start to write the words and always take them back because there are secret things happening between us and I don’t have the means to describe them. There are feelings— innate, secret, important, perfect and lovely— that I cannot even begin to explain. I want to write you novels on the palms of my hands and between my fingers, on the backs of my knees, and behind my ears, and I could use every last word in the dictionary and foreign languages and pictures and colors and none of it would, for one single moment, fully explain the way I feel when I wake up in the morning and remember that you exist. You are worth volumes of written word, and yes, it is simply miraculous that you exist."
...can never explain the way you feel about someone when you feel like this.
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