It is interminably hard to describe something important as anything other than itself. I’ve tried. I describe my childhood blanket as a gnarled gray mess, knotted on the edges where I gnawed at it incessantly, but to go even further—to make sense of it all—what is there to say other than:
It was my security blanket. I loved it to death.
I loved it very much.
There’s a big gaping hole in my knowledge between those two points, of knowing and knowing simply.
I think I know your hair only started curling in middle school. I think I know you like listening to the Crane Wives. I think I know you make ridiculous hand gestures on occasion, that your voice gets ten times deeper when you’re acting as an ambassador for some reason, that you like milk chocolate, that you do pushups at night, that you love using your stupid frog stickers when you text, that you’re warm, that you’re kind above all else. What else can I say, other than:
I’m very fond of you.
I like you a lot.
I’m getting nervous about time.
I really hope that I can muster up the courage to get this to you.
It is hard because I'm terrible with words. Bonds render me stupid. It’s why I’m a terrible conversationalist.
What is there to say, other than:
I hope this message finds you well.
I’d love to sit in silence with you.
This is really fucking corny.
Do you want to hang out on our own more often?