some love letters:
Rest is for the hours your face of the earth shies away from the sun.
Rest is for Sunday, according to Genesis.
Rest is for mornings and rainy days.
Rest is for those from whom youth has slipped in-between their cracked hands.
Rest is for the dead.
Let us stay awake while our youthful hue sits on our skin like morning dew. We can kiss in the rain until we cannot see our hands and walk until we cannot see where we once came from. We’ll stay up all night and try new things and love each other until our hearts are as numb as our feet. And when exhaustion has finally taxed our bodies, I’ll take hold of you. The shapes of our bodies can curl into one another like two charred, dying matches, a wisp of smoke the only reminder that it was 451 degrees just moments before. I want to hold your hands and read your beautiful eyes and exchange intimate gestures. I wouldn’t want to rest with anybody else.
I want my lonely ears to be graced with your sweet voice. My hands are hollow and confused. I miss the taste of your skin. You are a much lovelier use of space than the pillows in my bed, or the empty wind lapping at my back as I walk down my moonshine-soaked street. Sometimes I visit you in my sleep, and my interpretation of your soul blinks back at me. It’s hazy and sometimes I forget the exact locations of the freckles and scars on your chest, but the impression of your company makes me so happy.
My hands cannot wait to meet yours again.