I’m laying in bed waiting for sleep to come. You’re in my head — been there all day. Everything I feel, every glorious new experience comes with an instinctual urge to run to you and tell you all about it. It’s a reflex I’ve been fighting for twenty-two years now. After all this time, I’m still losing that fight.

I want to get up and write you a song. Some tune that says exactly what you are to me, with lyrics that’ll maybe make you shake your head and wonder how it is that I’m still so completely in love with you. A killer song with no answer for what becomes of us, only the unshakable determination to find a way to somehow be near you again.

But I can’t write songs. Not songs like that. And I can’t change how things are between us, and what we are to each other. And so I just keep laying in bed with you on my mind. Because in truth, that’s all I can do. Regardless of what they say, love really can’t move mountains. If it could, you’d be right here next to me, and I’d be in your arms tonight instead of writing you impossible letters in the dark, dreaming of an impossible life with you.