I gobble your soul by the gallon.

Your hair looks and tastes like hay; it's wild and warm like a barn with chipped paint. I feel responsible for the phone cord you left in the kitchen, but you held my words by your mouth. Nobody remembers because they didn't know. We're satisfied with our eyelids hooding our souls. It exaggerates our likewise optimistic and idealistic perception of the world.

You would never begrudge him, despite his aluminum grip on a synthetic belief system. That's why I will always love you and your flaxen, barn-like hair.