I can't stop thinking about your glass box. So clear and empty. I couldn't stop looking at it last night when we went to dinner and you were eating your salad. I tried to control myself. I tried looking at your casters or even your bushings but I just couldn't keep my eyes off your glass box. I don't dream about you much. When I do, I dream about the things you keep there. A calendar book. A magnet. A green-glowing coil. I dreamed I found the keys to your glass box and I opened it up and that's what I found. There was something red in it too, but i didn't look at that. I was more interested in opening it up. It was all I wanted.
Some day I will dream about touching your glass box. I will touch it with my fingers and my hand. I might even dream, one day, about holding your glass box and pressing it up against my face and humming. I imagine it to be cool like metal. it has to be the smoothest, cleanest thing ever. That's why, I think,. I want to put it against my face because it's so clean I wont catch a disease or contract a rash from it. It is always so dry and smooth. I can't stop thinking about how dry and clean and smooth it is. I think soon it's going to be too much for me and I'm going to tell you how I feel about your glass box. I'm going to blurt it out or nervously ask if I can touch it- or just ask you for permission to look at it when we're eating or sitting next to one another on the bus.
But what excites me the most about your glass box is that it might, just might, contain nothing at all. I lie in bed at night and imagine the day when we lie next to one another and you watch me look at your glass box... your empty glass box.
Vacant.
Pure.
Transparent.
With no complications or trouble.
Your empty glass box makes me feel nothing.
When that day comes, I hope you'll understand. Even if you don't want me to look at it or if it makes you uncomfortable that I might see what is in it- I hope you are gentle with my feelings. I hope you aren't too harsh with me.
I'm fragile, you see.
It's all I think about.
