Dear You

It's difficult to begin this letter, faced with the task of expressing my love for you by writing lines on trees- old trees. Just because its hard to say goodbye (even just with my fingers). Sitting alone on a bed meant for one- but perfect for two. My thoughts are on you (circling my brain like they're circling the drain- down into my throat to my hips and to my toes) and you're there with me holding me, breathing. When the exhaustion has taken its toll sometimes you're really there. For a blink. The scent of the black sweater I can't seem to sleep without. And it's confusing why I can never find the words- and these lines; illegible. Yet there is always a movement- a simple flex of the first knuckle on a finger tip and a twitch in the muscles of lips- meaning a thousand things- somehow that's so much more than the alphabet strung together by broken thoughts. I feel lost and lonely. When you leave I wait for you to come back. You're my reason for forgetting to breathe. Hopeful for clarity- where nothin else matters but the next time I can loose my legs between yours. Fantasies played to the accompaniment of sad songs and morning blur. An inevitable, undeniable- daunting and teasing- future. Before us. And happiness  is of utmost importance. It's hard to wait around for something that might never happen, but it's harder to give up when you know it's everything you want. To the left there are the flowers, slowly dying- like the impression of your body on mine. The towel's been washed and put away. If everything could stop. Oh darling if everything could stop and we could share breath. Or the breathless moment of clarity. You let your walls come down for me, so that we could waste afternoons holding hands sometimes we walk fast through leaves. And darling I'll do the same. So here it is love, a hopefully poetic explanation of why ( or how much) I hate goodbyes. 

Yours Truly.