I would awaken to find the parchment fully typed and spaced evenly between the italicized slurs. The paper would be scratchy and aged. The edges jagged and the surface uneven. All of my words would stick out to you, even the plain ones like “love” or “you” or “me.”
You’d be able to hear the words without speaking them. Just to pronounce them in your throat would be enough to send your synapses flaring into oblivion. I wouldn’t indent and I’d use too many commas to show, how we pause periodically, and not, methodically.
Every time your eyes scanned to the right, you’d catch the richest word and hold it up to your nose. As if I doused it with my scent, as if the scent could lift off the page and into your fingers where you’d like it to lounge.
And when your eyes scanned back to the left side of the page, you’d twinge your milky green eyes in confusion because you’d see the streaks outlined in front of my pretty, pretty words.
You’d wonder whether I was crying while I wrote this, or if it was just my incessant cup of coffee that made its way onto my words as it so often does. You wouldn’t linger too long though, because the weight of my words would drift over you and you’d forget about the rest. You’d continue to submerge yourself in each syllable.
Sometimes you’d stop to read over a phrase, and in your head you’d hear me saying it you. Softly and slowly as if my voice dripped with steady stripes of honey and stuck itself to your ribs.
I am not sure if you’d read it all over one sitting or if you’d leave the end for another day because I know how impatient you can get when my words run in circles instead of aligned with my thoughts. I do however know that in the time it takes you to read it, I will already be churning out another for you.
I’ll keep them tucked away in my nightstand for you to find. You’ll know they’re there. You’ll feel them, like tremors, calling to you in callous whispers that yearn to be seen by you, to be held by you, to be cradled not in your arms but in your eyes. Those eyes. They are the color of my dreams, the color that I sleep in.
They are also the familiar shade of a certain kind of sadness. It’s a contradictory kind that makes us both ache in the strangest of ways. Like being homesick for a place you haven’t left, or reading the end of a book you’ve already read and still feeling a twinge of sadness.
It’s a desperate hope that we cling to, that we crave so endlessly. And I hope we never stop craving. I hope you continue to inhale my love letters and taste them tenderly, every time.
More Love in Letters:
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