In my hands there is a letter.
Written in the intestines of its body are letters.
In those letters embeds my truth, my love.
Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday no matter what day the 14th falls on, it is only just a day.
The sun shines the same, the wind blows no different. The rain falls and birds chirp repeated melodies. I walk the same steps, I eat the same meals, I wear the same jeans. My lips are coated in the same strawberry pink, and my hair is curled in the same respectable do. The only difference is;
In my hands there is a letter.
Not only just a letter, but a letter whose body is embedded with smaller letters inscribed by my draining pen. That same pen in which I used when I wrote you the last letter.
And you smiled.
And you looked at me.
And I looked away.
And I smiled too.
Because what joy is there not to be brought? When somebody who is as beautiful, as heavenly as he, smiles, and warms my cold winter skin, with rising blood, and stirs my wiltering stomach, with aches of butterflies.
And I stay in silence, and I hide within my own shadow. I am scared to talk to you, I am scared you will hate me, while I feel an ever-growing love. Like apple blossoms only ever growing, all year long, never killed by an oncoming season.
He, my rain, He, my sun, He the stars in the night and the tender soil.
My heart, the simple blossom, blooming when I see him, and dying when I catch his eyes. And they feel empty, and I die inside, and color drains from my eyes, and hope from my head, and joy from my heart.
As strangers draw your attention deeper, or specks on the floor, while I, awake in the early morning and try so hard to catch your eyes, am no better than a wad of gum under a dirty table, which even then, I think you'd care more about the gum.
