There's this girl I'm absolutely bonkers about. I used to think about her all the time, I think about her a little less often now - partially because of an eclipse, of sorts.
She's dead. But don't worry - she's been dead a very long time. In fact, I've never even met her - but I love her dearly. Every time I read one of her poems, I feel a connection to her thoughts that I can't easily explain. But I do indeed love this long dead woman.
Her name is Emily Dickinson, and she's my biggest historical crush. I would have loved to love that woman - her writing is lonely, life-affirming, death-dealing, concerned with cosmic thoughts and the most mundane of experiences. There's a thread of loneliness running through her life that mirrors my own experiences. It seems we share what some of us all harbour - that melancholy stain, which grows or shrinks depending on the day or the circumstances of a week, and sometimes seems to leave only to pull a chair up to the dining room table during dinner, or crawl in beside you as you slip under the covers alone, long distances between those you love madly who are still upright, sniffin' the air and taking sustenance. This is an Ode to the love of my life I haven't met. This is my Ode to Emily.
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