I want to write about

moonlight and cool breezes and my favorite perfume and gold-colored flip-flops and sunlight in the morning and pink curtains and teal nail polish and mauve sunsets and benign raindrops and dewdrops on blooms and internet connection and talks over coffee and baby powder and thick, fluffy pillows and flowers and vanilla and drowsy afternoons and the sound of strings over hushed conversations, and pink quartz and fairy dust and fuchsia and purple and Daphne's flight and Breakfast at Tiffany's and happy endings and Rilke and Eeyore and clean sheets and nice-smelling towels and love and violins and weddings near the sea and mild waves against waiting rocks and Oscar the Grouch and shoe boxes and baskets of freshly-baked bread and newly-trimmed fingernails and walks in the park and green grass and Shakespeare and things...

Instead, I write about you, and I write about me.