Your Fonder Heart

I wrote you letters, I typed them on my Smith-Corona. Restarting with each mistake, telling you stories of delicate, cold sunrises. Sunrises which I have never seen, for each night I am awake into the wee hours of the morning, falling asleep as the moon rises in the East. You told me, "I love the coast the most," but God damn, what about me?

The love between two people, nothing alike, nothing in common other than a love formed through fear of not being together. So that in the future, you can remember that being together was lonely, but also just enough so the loneliness didn't hang like your thoughts on life and death when you step outside for a cigarette. He hates you and your cigarettes, and you will die lonely. You will die rough hand in soft hand, tool-baring hand in dish-washing hand, idolized by the friends you knew well enough to remain distant from. And you will die happy that you are not alone, even if that means being lonely.

This love, which began as a molehill, and as so many other things, soon transformed into a mountain. A violent, unfamiliar journey, obstacles and surprises. Like trying to squeeze a pillow into it's case after doing laundry. It seems like it should be so simple and easy, but it's a wrestling match, a feat of strength, and no satisfaction can be found at the finale. That night, sleeping on this pillow will not feel right. Where do you go from there??

How do you expect me to rid myself of all, of everything, of all this, this turbulence of the heart? These hurricane winds, the smell of hair product, the untied shoe lace, the music in your car? I've been saturated with everything that is you, so please add one more piece, the last piece, the cure to this un-release.