"I want to be naked w/ you, to feel your body, your life stretched along mine: I want to feel the breath from my lips to your ears, the distance so slight there's no fear of my words stumbling over their shuffling feet."
of course, I didn't send it. it has joined w/ all the other letters I've writter her.
some of them were actual letters--both hand and type-written--some of the letters were texts, or thoughts that kept w/ me for days + months, some were paintings, some poems, some were random little acts, a tilt of the head, a howl.
some of the letters were written in dinners I cooked for other people.
I am reminded of Kafka's letter to his father. never sent, just kept in a desk drawer, it was published after Kafka's death so everyone who wanted to could read it. except, of course, the person it was addressed to.
I want to compile the letters I've written you. let's say it was an even hundred. I want them in envelopes, each w/ your name written on it. your name, not any of the names I use when I write of you. I want them lined out in a grid on a wall so anyone who wants to can come and take a letter out, read it, and put it back.
I want to write your name on every brick, every stone I find.
I want to tell you I miss you. instead I'm going to get coffee.
