i start to say i love you and it catches in my throat, thank god. i used to say it so readily, compulsively like i was hammering on a thumbtack with a sledgehammer. now i want to say it low and slow, the same way our affection has simmered over hot coals, never quite boiling over, just the right amount of sap in our voices when we say goodbye. i wonder how much of it i’ve dreamed in these drunken winter months when i laid up in bed until i was stupid and drowned my loneliness until you called. remember when we woke up in the sun and you said you liked the the texture of my voice? the way i say things? they say we spend one third of our lifetimes sleeping and i think i’ve spent the same amount of time thinking about kissing your shoulder in the shower. just that one moment on repeat while i ride the train and walk to work, and stare out the window, and paint in the studio, and take a shower, and smoke a cigarette out the window, and, admittedly, probably the entire time we talk on the phone and you tell me about your day and tell me terrible jokes, and i can tell you have your face buried in a pillow.