You saw the wrong me.

Sometimes I get emotional over fonts. The curl of a lowercase g that reminds me of your curves. The flirty flick of a serif like those cat-eyes you spent so long perfecting. Sometimes I stare at something utilitarian—Helvetica, Arial—and I think of the simplicity of us.

FUCK!

You. You took that though. You did. You read my letters and you knew to be afraid, but you weren’t afraid enough. Not of me. Harmless me who would never tear your heart out and leave you broken.

SHIT!

No. Mustn’t swear. You never liked that. You didn’t.

You didn’t seem nervous about having a secret admirer—a stalker—when we first met. I wanted it to keep you inside. Hidden. Locked away where no one could find you and

Where only I could see you.

Maybe you had seen me too. Someone familiar. Maybe that’s why you were pleasant, reaching for your double tall latte, extra foam. You shouldn’t have been. You were only supposed to be seen. A fantasy. An illusion. A kaleidoscopic vision of the you of flesh and blood.

CUNT!

No. Sorry. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. You were perfect. And then you help me get home. The sunglasses and the cane—they were there so I could watch you unnoticed.

I never thought you’d notice me.

You…are still perfect. Broken. Open. Your perfect heart with all its perfect vessels dripping into my big stone bowl—filling it slow.

Sometimes I get emotional over fonts. But I’m kinda glad this font is filled with you.