Sometimes there are some times that I can be melancholy, brown-leafed of life, stuck in my sheets. That’s when I tend to my writing, and then I think of the letters I write to my Love, spelling out their name note by note as if my fingertips were tipping toes over black and white keys, crossing over the lines on the sheet as I feel melodies of my Love in the shape of each letter.
Robust, round vowels, lovely swooping J’s, linked letters like the ideas we pump out together. I wonder how many times we can make each other cross and still want to fix our hands together like the Y in a tree’s branch. We’re grown together and we make roots wherever we are; we make our own party wherever we are, or am I the only one celebrating us?