We make dogma out of letter writing: the apocryphal story of Lincoln who wrote angry letters he never sent. We wait for letters for days and days. Someone tells me I'll write you a letter and I feel he's saying you're different than anyone else. Distance's buzz gets louder and louder. It gets to be a blackest hole. I want the letter about the time we cross the avenue, and you reach for my hand without looking—I am afraid I'm not what you want. We float down the street as if in the curve of a pod and the starry black is like the inside of a secret. We're drunk. The streetlight exposes us which becomes the deepest horror. Yes. End the letter like that, so it becomes authorless. Then the letter might give off secrets: acid imbalances that detonate.
I’m watching an old movie in one corner
of my laptop and in another the shadows
nesting in your neck, the flickering frequencies
of your sweater, and remember the Jack Nicholson
tagline in that movie we almost watched then decided
against fearing the little taser of misogyny:
You make me want to be a better person. Sometimes
the only thing I want is to say marry me
even though we both think marriage is archaic and weird
or at least for us. It’s not marry me I want to say
but rather weld with me like a net we also sit in.
Oh FaceTime face and shadow neck and the almost synced
sound of our shared watching. You have a list of things
that are going to be the death of you,
and so do I, which we cover in our debriefings.
All of this is to say that distance makes my heart go farther
into the terrain of heartfelt and I love it: how ordinarily
classifiable it is like feeling literal figurative butterflies
in your stomach. The good being fundamental.
Surprising love can happen at any part of one’s life
like the pixels deciding when to flicker into bursts.