Barking Up the Wrong Tree

One of the stupidest things I’ve done in my entire life probably stemmed from the mistake of misreading your address.
I was 13 at that time and after a lot of deliberation, managed to ask your sister for your home address. I don’t think I did too good a job of disguising my feelings for you. She laughed me in the face back then but wrote it down anyway. She came back to me a few minutes later to correct the address, for she had forgotten to add in the # sign that comes in front of most housing block addresses. In her attempts to squeeze in that # sign, she wrote over the first digit of your house number.
Overcome with the sense of euphoria that I now had your address, I proceeded to send letters and cards for every and any occasion I could think of. Christmas, birthdays, hanukkah (I would if I knew when that was). I stood on the ground floor many a time and looked at the window of your house. I had so painstaking counted them one by one to make sure I had the right window frame. Two years went by and it seemed as if there was no response whatsoever to my letters and cards.
I was thankful though, for at least that meant that I was not humiliated or rejected. For two whole years I sent letters and cards, not by post, but by hand. Waiting carefully for the right moment till the shadows passed away from the main door and I’d rush up and stuff whatever cargo I carried under the sliver under the door. Then I’d run away, half afraid someone would open the door and ask me what I was doing. For two whole years I laboured over what words to pen, that the messages might be as eloquent as they possibly could. For two whole years I expressed my love to the wrong audience, running away from ghosts that never existed, when the angel I had wanted to gaze upon lived twenty floors above.

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