I like you. I want to make that clear. I meet a lot of people. And I like you. Maybe it's the way you giggle when I look at you long enough. Or maybe it's the way your smile makes me tremble. Just a little bit. Just enough.

I have been busy. As we agreed. There's a reason I'm crazy. It may be my overeagerness. Maybe that's why I haven't called. I don't want to talk to you when it makes so much sense to spend time with you.

And why shouldn't I? Everything falls into place. I remember staying up with you lovely from 8 to eleven, filling the hours with dense smells and tastes and good conversation. It soothed my soul and made staying up until 4am afterwards to finish my homework that much more motivated. I was sober, able to see through to the end of all my objectives.

I don't want to be too calculating. I can't help it. I'm trying to hold this together. I'm alone, drinking Tecate and ruminating on my pains. I don't want to burden you with any emotion. I write it here instead, air my dank heart publicly - you can decide if you want to take this as yours or not.

That CD rang truest at the end, there's a sort of deeply melancholy vibe to the entire work but the electronica track resonates deeper in my digital memory. And still the patterns are clear - there's androgynous men who sing somewhere between genders here. Chet Baker. Jeff Buckley. When I played you Willie McTell you were enchanted by the ambisexual quality of his voice. It was something I'd been enchanted by for years that I hadn't thought about in some time.

You asked me if you weren't odd enough. In different words. I think about that. That's the danger of truth and doubt - speaking gives power to ideas. Sharing doubts - it's wild. When I speak of my interiority, my emotional life, I feel like I'm giving voice to too wide a range of ideas. All the things I think about? I've come to fear - there's too much to imagine, if I express it, I feel like I'm inviting a lively cast of demons to join me on the stage of my life. No, I say most of the time, these days, better I should entertain the demons backstage and be the sole presenter of the bold face.

But the bold face hasn't held up so well, has it? You like my vulnerability, I think, I believe, I'd like to think I guess. I like to imagine that my tender side, my doubtful side appeals to you. I guess I want to be loved. But maybe not too much. I just can't give I just don't know. I'm putting together another CD list for you. And I got a CD I want to buy; I was thinking I would open it, rip the tracks down to listen to myself, and then give the CD to you. I hope that's okay - that's not crass, is it? I don't own a shrinkwrapper. I want to share this music with you. To make you sing. And I have a book I want to buy you. Things I want you to read and talk to me about, your curious mind. I would read it myself and talk to you. But I have reading for school!

School ain't an excuse, I guess - it's a choice. Just like debt. All I've taken on. I just want to let you know, I'm not ready for kids. Actually, that's me - I have to tell myself. I don't have to tell myself. I know it! What am I doing? If I want to make a family with a peer, I really got to get my shit together. I'm a fucking student! Again. Debt, and subjugation. Shouldn't I be making some money? I want to make fatherhood right. To understand the failure of my Dad! And make glorious his successes - his semen, my own. Something like that. We can adopt, I don't care.

See, I'm sorry D, the stakes are so irrationally high here! I can't help it. I might blame my astrology reading. I don't have too many other metaphors. I don't have male friends who convey this same sense of deep bonding craving to me. I'm just ready to take up sharing a house with you, but we haven't spoken in a week. It's arbitrary who we pick to settle with, isn't it? Somewhat - with so many ways to meet people, we might as well stop meeting people now. Sure, there's tits and ass I haven't yet stuck my nose into. We can talk about that. Still, what I relish is homelife - being here, where I am, with someone. But how can I attract another bird when my nest feels so unfeathered?

There are things we're supposed to do to prepare for marriage. Like courting, dating, relating. I can do all those things, well I tell you, in a moment of confidence. I can romance your pants. I know politesse. You deserve it. I can tell you that, and perform it with a straight face. But I'm not ready, I'm not ready to be a fully committed man. Because I have homework, a student job. I've got a lot of work

This is why I haven't figured out how to call you yet. Why I sit here jerking off instead of reaching for your belly and breasts. I'm a fool. Lost! Hah! And happy, deeply, somewhere. I know I am. Stress-related rashes and pimples aside, I'm a deeply satisfied man. With an evolved interpersonal dialog, for one, thank you. By the window, if that's available.

So let's have fun! I'll call you, yes. You're so compelling! I see you in my buddy list each day, online chat available, hello, what are you listening to? I'll try not to be serious, but all this is in my head - I still want to merge, I'm sorry. I'm nearing thirty and I still imagine myself pressed up against a woman so tight I trade her my penis. We can carry these old fantasies when we successfully act normal so much of the time, right? So much unspoken during the day. I'm sorry I haven't called. This is why. Deep breath! I like you.