astronaut ambition

Unsent Letter #2

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Mon May 29 00 / 3:34 PM

Dear Christopher Pike,

I am Yuna Tee, and the Queen of Been. I am so many other names that none are important.

In the early hours, I watch you on my screen. My names are unimportant, but yours in front of me makes my eyes smart and my chest flutter.

I don't know what you are. You are a lifeline to so many different realities, ones that I come back to again and again and never fail to find comfort in living within them. And you are also the tip of an iceberg, popping out of a cold dark sea of mystery and intrigue and newness. I want to swim in your waters, I want to swim with you. I don't know why; but the longing is there.

Your stories are like sex on the first date. They rack my mind just like the sex does, and the breathless girl at the end of the thrill feels different for it. Your words are a cheap feel down my chest stolen during a shoulder massage; they slither on my waist like one or two coils of silver barbed wire that accentuate my slimness and arouse the fetishist; they slide on my thighs, and that's all that it takes.

The first glance upwards after devouring one of your books or one of my boys is always horrible - because it's finally over and I want some more - because there is suddenly a wordless void with nothing to fill it until the next Saturday night or publisher's release.

I am trying to think of words that will make you enamored of me. The way that your words, all I have of you, did to me. But how can you love me? How can I love you? We are just words on paper, words in light. We can't be people this way. Two stars passing in the night, my photons putting a twinkle in your eye, yours putting an inspiration in mine.

I want to tell you of the direction your starlight has guided me. When I first fell into one of your published worlds, I came back out of it an altered state. You don't need the details, but the significant actions in my life since finding you have all been inspired by your pennings. Are you scared? Are you excited? I won't hurt you. I would let you hurt me, nicely, to get a touch.

I don't live for you, but living is better for the sake of you. It's an honesty that needs nothing else.

And still this word comes up, "you". You you you. Who are you? Who could you be to me? I love what your famous thoughts do to me. I want to love what your private thoughts could do.

Only you, and me, and stars and Mars ... so little to ask.

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Lisa Higgs

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*Unsent Letter #2*
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latest archive about email links yearbook japan photoblog wish list	Mon May 29 00 / 3:34 PM Dear Christopher Pike, I am Yuna Tee, and the Queen of Been. I am so many other names that none are important. In the early hours, I watch you on my screen. My names are unimportant, but yours in front of me makes my eyes smart and my chest flutter. I don't know what you are. You are a lifeline to so many different realities, ones that I come back to again and again and never fail to find comfort in living within them. And you are also the tip of an iceberg, popping out of a cold dark sea of mystery and intrigue and newness. I want to swim in your waters, I want to swim with you. I don't know why; but the longing is there. Your stories are like sex on the first date. They rack my mind just like the sex does, and the breathless girl at the end of the thrill feels different for it. Your words are a cheap feel down my chest stolen during a shoulder massage; they slither on my waist like one or two coils of silver barbed wire that accentuate my slimness and arouse the fetishist; they slide on my thighs, and that's all that it takes. The first glance upwards after devouring one of your books or one of my boys is always horrible - because it's finally over and I want some more - because there is suddenly a wordless void with nothing to fill it until the next Saturday night or publisher's release. I am trying to think of words that will make you enamored of me. The way that your words, all I have of you, did to me. But how can you love me? How can I love you? We are just words on paper, words in light. We can't be people this way. Two stars passing in the night, my photons putting a twinkle in your eye, yours putting an inspiration in mine. I want to tell you of the direction your starlight has guided me. When I first fell into one of your published worlds, I came back out of it an altered state. You don't need the details, but the significant actions in my life since finding you have all been inspired by your pennings. Are you scared? Are you excited? I won't hurt you. I would let you hurt me, nicely, to get a touch. I don't live for you, but living is better for the sake of you. It's an honesty that needs nothing else. And still this word comes up, "you". You you you. Who are you? Who could you be to me? I love what your famous thoughts do to me. I want to love what your private thoughts could do. Only you, and me, and stars and Mars ... so little to ask.
	</>
Lisa Higgs
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