Do you think of me.
Most beloved. The purpose of my existence.
I am certain of nothing else but this one thing.
That you breathe into the ideal of something outside of myself.
The commute of daily life.
The hours, seconds and years that it takes to build the ultimate dream.
The toil of hard working hands that desire more.

The first kiss of the rest of my life.
An envelope sealed under the same ideals.
The letter being you wrapped tight in my arms.
Over one thousand kisses stamped over and over mailed to the same address.
Time after time again.
Under the circumstance that I am thinking of you each and every time that I am smitten in thought.
A letter not to be returned to sender in the hopes that you feel the exact same way.
 
I admit that we are human and lust is not to be confused with desire in any way.
Mail carriers sometimes deliver mail to the wrong P.O box.
Some post offices take at least 5 to 7 business days if mailed out of state.
Handled by different hands, sorted, bagged and carried.
 
 
And here I sit, currently unmarked.
Uncertain if I will make it there in time
for holding one of the most potent substances known to man