Subtle Entries 010
You Might Like The Letter.
I like the stories we all tell ourselves. Like the story I’m making about you now.
The light is on. It makes the room yellow. And your fingertips keep kissing the table in gentle taps as you rest your head on the neck of the oak wood chair. You’re quiet. Breathing. The rings on your fingers catch the light like they are trying to keep it.
I should have turned on the tv. I’m reading the silence while losing an argument with Shakespeare in my head. I’m wearing your black sweater and it smells like cigarettes and your perfume.
Nala is near the sofa negotiating with a sock. Probably yours or mine. I think she’s winning. And the cat is on the purple rug, busy pretending it has no responsibilities.
You sigh, almost freely, and look at me.
I almost read you a poem but I shut up instead and drink the rest of my cinnamon tea from my festive mug. I wonder if you know your hair is messy, and how badly I want to fix it.
There’s a small stubborn thing that moves in your neck when you swallow. I like it.
I walk over. I kiss it. My hands find your hair. I kiss your eyes closed. Your nose. Then your jaw. You laugh, and it feels like I’ve been forgiven for something I didn’t know I did. You kiss me sweetly, like it’s nothing, like it’s everything.
I wrote you a letter and left it under my pillow. I might give it to you tomorrow. I’m not sure you’ll like it. I think I’m only being poetic again.
Now it’s raining. I’m not sure when it started. Maybe it just wanted to be part of the story.
You wrap your arms around me and pull me closer.
I look at you. You smile. And kiss my forehead.
I guess you might like the letter.
