I want to write you old-fashioned pen on paper love letters (everything is love, when you are in love). I want to send you quirky postcards with blood red script and poems so raw they dissolve on your tongue. I want to tattoo your name and address onto kiss stamped envelopes, until the letters bleed into my fingers and eyes. For you I would fold myself into origami. For you I would wake fully each day. I don’t think you comprehend the risk of waking fully each day. What it would do to me to feel so much all at once.
If I knew you were watching I would make love with my eyes open. I would undress each moment like a lover and let it fill me till convulsion. For you I would crawl. Howl. Burn. I would feel everything. For you I would soak straight through the pages.
The first experience is always rushed. We are possessed. Unmoored. Wooden from fear. I want to lay roots in you. To drink of the minutia of my every day. I want to sew your delirious letters together and wear them like silk sheets. I want to get to know you, all of you. Write me. I want to eat you.
Sometimes I wonder if we have moved at all. Sometimes it feels as if I were made of air and that each time you draw a breath I am sucked into your body. Perhaps I am only that to you. A suggestion of fullness. A hapless transparency. A beautiful nothingness like the sky above water. When I am feeling neglected, immobile, frantic I disppear under the covers and I run my fingers over the sweater and I pretend that time has frozen just for me. In those moments I am truly immortal. In those moments I understand what it means to be erotic
With all that I am your DF