Dear Stacey,

I wish I could write you a letter.

I picked up my downhill backpack, hung a bunch of shit off the back of it, and went camping. Strolling by the promenade on my last leg was beautiful. Like you.

I made macaroni and cheese, cooked to perfection. You know it’s oregection when the sauce summers down right to the perfect consistency as you slowly turn the flame down, minute by minute, to nothing.

I really do love you and I am sorry I couldn’t love you before.



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