Usually I write when I am sad; that is my inspiration, like your writings about death, and that’s it: the secret to writing is depression, sadness, loss, pain-- isn’t it?--and you make me want to write, but I can’t because I haven’t been sad, I’ve been content in this healing process, while the scar on my right cheekbone fades from swollen red to flat cherry, my mind fades from paranoid-obsessed to tranquil-normal, and you are a large part of that softening.

I want to write about us and you and this new chapter of my life, but between our little dates and tear-filled laughs, I can’t seem to find the time, and I’m so thankful for that and you and me, and my strength and your understanding, like yesterday, when we laid like hibernating caterpillars in our floor-bed cocoon, watching the full season of that show, followed by another movie, and yet, more television, and then slipped into bed, where I'd hoped you’d take my clothes off, and you did, in the dark, in my ***** cat-**** blankets, you lifted my Alex Grey shirt off and kissed me, pushed my left knee far away and it slid across the white sheet with a sound that made me want you more, your touches were, as always, so soft, as was the way you licked my bottom lip like candy.

I love that you do things that I am too shy to do, I’ve never had this before and I love the way I can make you laugh until you cry, and of course, your hair and big color shifting eyes and soft lips, and your slender fingers and the way they pluck delicately while your voice is quiet, giving me chills, which is why I am saying I am not sad, I am not feeling pain, I am feeling the lust and joy of healing and normalcy, I am feeling you and me and us and my new life outside of what I had known, just two months ago.