I can’t not write. I can’t not take the time to hold a pen and write you a letter, even if my pen is my keyboard, I can’t not when my heart just keeps pushing, pushing.
I learned about your tour, how you’re coming to Arizona in August. The 11th. And how presale tickets go up on the 11th of May and that is when the air began folding in. And that is when everything in existence began with the number eleven. Like brand new, gleaming, even if a conscience echoed here and there, even if my perception was all azure and cloud-like, I found out you are coming. Here.
To this terrible State with its terribly hot weather and all facades will fall because you will be here. Right here. I’ll make a room for you. I’ll burn you breakfast because I’ll have no desire to cook. I’ll have no sense about me so I might forget to wear make-up. I might hurry about because I’ll have lost all reason and direction. You see, I love you and my love for you remains unmarried.
I try and try to go about my daily life and then you announce you’re coming here. To Arizona. Right here. My own backyard. And what am I supposed to do? I swear I will probably leave tracks in the asphalt on my way to the show. I will surrender once again to the expanse of your music. The hour may be dark, the month may be tepid, but all I can care to think about is you drawing close.
I wait sincerely like a tenant of some barren holding room. I wait inside of my skin. I’m so thrilled you are coming! I can’t wait to see you.
