I've never had something to lose before. I have a life worth living now, and when I'm alone, I think about it, and it intimidates me.
I wish I'd been more grateful, maybe. I wish I'd been where I am now, so I could have steered the ship to where I wish it were.
I was just thinking, it's so silly, lamenting the past, wishing for the future. We tend not to be very good at "the present." What should I be doing now to build the future I want? What can I do to make that future the present?
This funky little blanket-hoodie that you're so enamored with smells like your hair when it's wet, since you wear it every time you get out of the shower, but it itself is not damp. It's kind of got a unique thing going on, but I haven't let go of it since coming in here to go to bed. I think about you coming in here in the morning to get ready for work, and maybe catching me sleeping in it. I think it would be charming if you did. I wonder if I'd earn myself a hug or a little kiss on the head. I'd like to imagine that I would.
Imagine if I could express myself naturally, to you, without drawing some ill eye from lookers-on. Imagine where we could be if I hadn't taken that ancient scorn so far, running with the divide between us. I am so close to contentment, to be by your side in this life. I don't want to dream of the next life. I want to hold you in this one.
I can be scared of real things, now, rather than imagined ones. It's so scary to think of a moment where your pillow might not smell like you, but someday that will happen. I couldn't bear to be without you, I'm sure, yet either that will come to pass, or I will have left you all alone, and the very act of typing that brings tears to my eyes. Does this count as a love letter? This self-indulgent rumination, hugging your sweater close, breathing you in alone in the dark of our bedroom? I love you more than air. I want to become everything you deserve. I think I can do it. I'm growing as a person alongside you, I still want to be here, with you.
God, you're beautiful. You're kind and you've grown to be generous. You're considerate and patient, you've grown to truly hear when others speak. Grown grown grown.
I wonder to myself if I could ever say these things to you. Night and night I come to the words, so sternly locked away. I encouraged the reality we share, but if I said anything, would that be cruel? You seem happy. I know you would hurt if anything did come to change from some confession of mine.
I tell you all the time, I love you, I love you more than air, I love you more than the hazy loss of it numbing my bones and softening the edges of my mind, I love you more than my pain, I love you more than my ability to see color, to smell or to taste, to create. You are so so beautiful, in every way. You are a true friend, loyal and dedicated and so doting, loving, warm. You've cared for me and given me more than anyone else ever considered.
I was hoping that typing all of this would ease the craving in my chest, but it only deepens, stark against your absence. My most important person, dear to me. The world is so broken, but we are so bright. I wish I could convey what I'm feeling. My home is literally wherever you are, cliches be damned. This isn't poetry, it's honesty. It kind of hurts. You tell me I'm annoying in little ways, dismiss me when you're done, but haven't I done the same? Haven't I earned it? We're just people. Pressurized bone, opalescent.
If I were the one to marry you, would I be allowed to hold you without the tension of the other? If I were the one to marry you, would that magically solve the riddle that keeps us in check? I want to be allowed our natural shape, I want to be permitted our fluid nature, I want to be be be.
Were you in our room, I would wrap my arms around you until I could feel the shape of you molding my heart. I think I could experience true loss if you were ever to vanish. It's horrifying, so much moreso than any novel has ever or could ever portray. I love you, I love you.
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