Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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She doesn’t know your name. She hasn’t seen your face.
Yet she knows what your cat looks like. She knows the seven-hour difference between your worlds. She knows the sleepless nights you inhabit. She knows the mushrooms you are fascinated with. She knows how anxious you get at parties. She knows your favorite color is in between blue and ultramarine. She knows you love potatoes because she does too. She knows your favorite word is “whimsical.”
She doesn’t know your name. She hasn’t seen your face.
Yet she wants you to be happy. Always. Every day. Every second. She wants you to smile as often as you are able to. She wants you to know that you are amazing and wonderful and that you have a beautiful soul. She wants you to know that you are not worthless. That you are worth loving and cherishing and keeping. She wants you to know that you really are too good to be true.
She doesn’t know your name. She hasn’t seen your face. And she doesn’t know if she will be able to find out these things. But she knows enough. And as days go by, she wants to know more. More of you.
