I wonder,

How significant are the notes that I write for you? Clean, college-ruled paper with thick, black ink and emotions from deeper pits of my beating heart. Do they strike your fancy? Tickle your mind? Do you keep them taped to pages of your diary or nailed against cork boards? Or are they already in the trash can; the recycling bin if you give a bit more of a damn.

How cherished are the text messages at inconvenient times? Words upon words upon words of admiration and teasing if I’m feeling wild. The religious “good nights” and “good mornings” that you never reply to. Do you notice them? Maybe you just don’t give a care…

Let me tell you,

The notes you write for me stay locked up in a box in my closet, and I read through all twenty-eight of them every week, without fail. They’re written on lined paper, printer paper, construction paper, scrap paper, napkins. But I don’t read them because they’re written on pleasant stationery. I read them because you took time out of your day to take a pen or colored pencil and draw me a picture or write a paragraph or design a map that leads straight from you to me.

Your texts are immaculate, even if you type “you” with “u” and you abbreviate “thanks” with “thnx”. Even if you don’t think proper grammar is all that important and you never ever use punctuation. I cherish every sentence, every word, every letter, even the spaces between the words. They mean more to me than you can ever imagine.

Thank you so much