december 29, 2012
it’s cold. the kind of cold, cold night that good books begin on. it’s cold enough to start snowing and if only for that reason i have all the blinds on the windows pulled up high, just in case flakes start falling before i close my eyes. it's cold and i'm waiting for snow that i know isn't coming and i'm lying on a bed that was never quite intended to be just mine, curled up in sheets that i bought after a week of sleeping on ones that had too much history.
(i want to be what makes your bones weak)
my fingers are starting to go numb, tired of writing love notes and tucking them into pockets only for them to be forgotten. i wear red lipstick when you're gone to kiss the underside of your pillow so that you'll be able to remember that you're loved even when i'm not asleep beside you.
before i'd kissed you i imagined what it would be like. would it be like fourth of july fireworks on the back of black eyelids? expensive white wine and fingers touching skin so insistent it’s bruising? would it taste like the people you wanted to kiss before me and would you mix up the first letter of my name with letters that come a few spaces after it?
the way you look at me sends shivers up my spine unrivaled by any look of lust in a dark corner of a hallway. rich lips on rich skin couldn't compare to the feeling of waking up with you warming your toes on the back of my legs and i don't think i could ever be persuaded to give up a second of a memory i have where you were in the same place as me.
i can't imagine living in a world where you can't look at me, and i can't imagine who i would be without you. thank you notes aren't exactly my specialty but i’m trying to convey how much the feeling of knowing you'll be home soon means to me. how the novelty of the idea that you and me are something more than an idea. we're concrete.