Sometimes when you tell me you’re convinced I’m tired of you I panic because I’m not sure anymore if you’re just joking or being serious about it. I can usually tell what you’re feeling by the way you write, but people can hide things in writing too. And people who think they’re an annoyance have a way of shutting themselves off, trying to spare others the trouble of having to be around them, so it’s terrifying to think that I could lose someone I desperately need because they think I don’t.

Please don’t do that to me. And please don’t do that to yourself. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. It’s not just that I need you either, it’s that I want you too- remember how I said I hate needing anything or anyone? Well, it’s still true, but I want you anyway, I want you I need you I weed you, as you might jokingly say, and I would smile. The funny thing is when I say weed I mean how people call plants they don’t like weeds, but you know I don’t understand them and think they hate weeds because whatever they do those plants have found ways to stubbornly survive. Sometimes you can’t even tell a plant’s a weed, they’re so pretty. They just can’t grow in rows, is all, because they’re rebellious like that. And I’m thinking of you as I write this, and wickedly wonder how you’d react if I started calling you my weedling. Or my weed. Ha. Weed.

Imagine if I actually said that out loud, and something like “Oh, weed is amazing”, meaning you, but someone else wouldn’t get the reference and think I’ve been smoking because it would be hilarious. And well. From what you’ve told me, it applies in little ways too, of you, you make not worry and you make everything seem clearer and you’re a dear friend- say, have you ever thought “weed is a wonderful friend”? Sung it? Can I sing with you?

I’ve just realized how I’ve switched from ridiculously sentimental to flat out laughing at myself because that’s what happens when I’m up at two in the morning, I lose all sense, and that I ought to sleep. I wonder if you’re dreaming and what sort of dream you’re having and if you’re sleeping well or if your head is splitting open yet and the number of times I’ve had headaches and you’ve helped me forget I have them, and how I’ve not really been any help at all and I need you and I hate that I need you but mostly I despise that you’re ever so irkingly far away and I can’t actually hug you and I love you for being dear and sweet and kind and sensible and intelligent and amazing in limitless ways and your mind is amazing, you are amazing, I am so grateful you exist. Thank you for your existence. Thank you for existing. And I despise that you’re so far away. If I were to write a book I would be upset and tired because I would see everything wrong with it and you’d remind me I can write well and so I’d write “for weed- amazing and too far away” and then see what they make of that. But you would get a signed copy and I’d send it to you and now I’ve been set to thinking it would actually be something worth getting, see how I’ve got grand ideas up my head? It’s your fault. I’m blaming you for them because it’s fun to blame thing on you and you can’t do anything about it and you know I don’t mean it and adore you to bits.

But not literally, I’d much rather you stay very much whole and not literally in pieces because that would be rather bloody and horrific and I might run away which is sad because I don’t like to think I’d run away from you or have cause to, because you’ve always been a safe place. Like when you’re little and the darkness under the blankets is comforting, a bit like that. I can’t see myself running away from my safe places. I can see myself settling in comfortably with them wrapped around me and falling asleep like that in their safe cocoon. I’ve gone back to talking about sleep, which is probably some psychologically unconscious way I’m telling myself I ought to sleep. The image of having pieces of bloody anything is rather alarming. That makes two reasons I ought to be sleeping. Ah. Goodnight then.