i have wronged thee. i apologize. i have devalued you as a living, breathing organic being, and i have pumped you full of expectations that i probably never meant to fulfill. i don't mean to hurt you when i say that you weren't supposed to mean anything to me; it's true. you were a fling, an experiment, an abstraction of writing. and then i went and did the thing you're not supposed to do with an experiment: i fell in love. i am pygmalion and you are galatea.
i neglect you. i lead you on, opening your file and then staring blankly at the screen, pondering everything and nothing about you. i set time aside for you and then i find everything in the world to act as an excuse for not loving you properly. i have composed whole chapters of you that i haven't found the energy to put to writing. you hover at 7000, three measely scenes and mother of an ending. and yet, i love you.
i hope you can find some comfort in these words, when i tell you it's not because i do not care. oh, no, my novel novel (a pun!), that could not be further from the truth. i sit in idle because i love you too much, too much to fill your word count with words that don't mean a thing and exchanges that will inhabit the garbage can once the month is over. you're better than that. instead, i want to take my slow and measured time with you, crafting each word so that it perfectly fits each dimension of you. i want you to be subtle, i want you to be witty, i want you to be the perfect catch ending and yet, be right there in front of you for the entire time. i want to love in a way this one month stand won't allow.
don't be jealous of the other ones on the playground, the ones who, it seems, are getting more attention and love than you are in this month of You. they don't occupy this portion of my heart.