your daughter holds my breath in a secret compartment i have yet to find. at least, i imagine it must be so, otherwise why can't my lungs fully expand without a hitch when she is around me?

dear sir,

sometimes i am a writer. sometimes the words come easily. but when i think about writing your daughter a letter, the words aren't easily found. the adjectives don't describe her aptly enough, the nouns and verbs run together like a four car pile up on the interstate, when all i want to do is tell her i like her.

dear you,

you read a book of poetry i handed to you, one night. giving it back you, you told me you wished someone would write like that for you. the truth of it is, i would like to, but i am afraid.

im afraid you wouldnt accept it, because you dont want it from me.

im afraid you would accept it, because you do want it from me, but it wouldn't live up the expectations you or i had for it.

im afraid that it might live up to the expectations.

i want to lose myself in you. i come so close when you are around and in your memories held within me, but theres always a line that stops me.

i want to know your body fully, i want to be able to tell when a new scar appears or when an old one fades.

i want to know your mind. i want to be able to look at you, across the room, see you laughing, and know what you're laughing at.

i want you to know me. i want to drive down a back road one afternoon, alone, and be struck by the simple fact that i don't have to explain myself to you anymore.

i want to come home, after work, after anything, and have your smell in my house, in my shower, in my bed, even if you are not there.

i want to sleep in late one morning, watch the sun move across our wall and over our bed and light your skin up.

i want to read poetry to you in a bookstore, to see if i should buy the book. i want to take you, 3 in the morning, to buy a slushie with me. i want to make you smile and laugh until you cry and know thats the only time youll ever cry.

i want you.

thank you for your time,