To: Sax Esquivel <[email protected]>

From: Sen Mortel <[email protected]>

Subject: And if I resemble no poet, forgive me

I am writing this with the copious influence of Redhorse--or must I grant myself some decency--a considerable amount of alcohol to release some inhibitions within the speech center of a dork that I am. Apologies that I have to presume my name still rings a bell to you and you need no qualms to proceed reading.

The series of days of seeing you inactive on messenger caused me to notice you're no longer frequenting there. Ergo, I rummaged for your email address in our chatbox and had revived my seldomly-of-purpose Gmail account to dismiss things I rather know if timely.

For the past weeks, we've been sitting in the pantry and at whiles communicating through messenger to compose a song we recently nailed at our Christmas party on the last 19th. And no, don't tell me I'm hallucinating 'cause I souvenired the papers you crumpled when you couldn't think of the nicest bridge, took pictures of you when your mood was ranging between musing and boredom, and had recorded your voice when you sang a portion of the song that orchestrated symphony in my ears.

All said I suppose those have warmed me up enough now to confess that I marvel in your presence. Your stormcloud of hair makes me wonder how it will feel between my fingers. Your long-fingered hands bring about a want for me to check if they're made to fit mine. Your slender feet constantly earn an urge from me to invite you for an ambling. And your beauty has me lingering in the realm of dreams, thinking you won't exist as I wake.

Thus, if you don't want sleepless nights whilst blaming yourself for having me unawakened under the belt of your charm, you have to respond with a minimum of but not limited to three words if you're not rejecting me otherwise a thousand if you are.