But while we lay in the grass, tracing pictures in the stars and talking about nothing and everything, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe we could somehow be together. Perhaps she could come with me to London. We wouldn’t have to hide anymore.
I want to tell her.
I want to tell her everything. I want to write you a love letter about all the nothings that have come to mean everything. I want to tell you how I’ve fallen in love with the sound of your breath in the clumsy silence between our laughter and your voice when you’re tired and that single freckle that sits like the closing of a sentence upon your cheek. I wish I could explain how I love the Morse code messages you create as you tap your fingers against the windowsill, the way you fight your stubborn, feral hair with ribbons and pins, the way you are brave and angry and proud. But most of all, I love how I both know you so well, yet know nothing of you at all. I don’t know your secrets, nor what you think about when you’re only half awake with your thoughts scrawled raw and human across your sleepy mind, though I wish I did. I wonder what you are, what you’ll become, and what is inside your funny head when you think of me.
—Benjamin's Journal, 1944
art, writing, characters (c) me