An open letter to my throat, James.

Dear James,

I'm dreadfully sorry that I fell asleep in the smoking study room, not only for my sake, but for yours as well. I am very glad that you're still alive, and I would do anything to make it up to you. If only you told me your wishes. Why do we not speak more often? One would think it only natural, but alas, you are sadly incommunicative. Perhaps you were trying to say something when you grew that lump this last Tuesday, but I can't quite make it out. Are you angry with me? You should know by now that I don't respond well to violence. Remember those times you got me out of school whenever I wanted by pretending to be infected with strep? And then in the empty house I would eat ice cream for you to make you happy? I wish we might soon return to days like that, if only you could tell me what the lump's about.

Was it friction from the smoke, or your attempt to seal yourself and keep out the harshness of that guy's pipe? Did you raise that bump because you are happy? Is it a cry for more syrupy coffee drinks?

Anyway, I hope you read this. I never meant to offend you. Please come back to me, baby.

Your most dedicated friend, etc.