So I write another letter.
I love you very much. You are the city I live in; you are the name of the month and the day. I float, salty and heavy with tears, barely keeping my head above water. I seem to be sinking, but even there, underwater-where the phone doesn’t ring and rumors don’t reach, where it is impossible to meet you-I will go on loving you.
I love you, yet you force me to hang onto the running boards of your life. My hands are freezing. I’m not jealous of people: I’m jealous of your time. It is impossible not to see you.
So what can I do when there is no substitute for love? You know nothing about the weight of all things.
Viktor Shklovsky, from Zoo, or Letters Not About Love (via ahuntersheart)