I want you to know that I spent the entire evening digging a tunnel from my place to yours. I managed to finish it, but I was so tired that I didn’t pop up and say hi. Besides, how would I explain myself? So I just stayed there under the earth, under your house, under your life, and cried myself to sleep. I crawled back home on my hands and knees. Not because there wasn’t room for me to stand up and walk, but because it seemed like the right thing to do, given my mood.

But I have to admit, it’s a nice tunnel. It’s lit by candlelight from thousands of Trapp No. 68 candles. It’s lined with photographs of you and me, all hung in ornate golden frames, depicting the unforgettable moments we’ve shared.

I did not crawl from the country soil to kiss you because I could not do so. Neither did I drag you down there with me for a quick kiss. Subterranean environments are no place to kiss a lady. I dug the tunnel as a means of getting to you, but it is not a venue for our love. The tunnel is literally and figuratively beneath our love.