Writing to you makes me wonder

Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?

Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair, bodies upon bodies upon bodies

The memory of you stills my pen like calm spring trees

People claim that writers have the words to describe everything

I am not cut out for it if that is the case; I cannot put into words how I feel

Maybe it is enough to say that you are like how Frank O’Hara writes

I mean to say that you are the first warmth on my skin after the coldest of winters, that you are the crack of the cola can in summer

It was never about the cola, more the having it with you, the drinking it in like a flower gulps in the sun

Did you know that the sun is actually white and yet it is not a fit rival to the bright of your eyes

Did you know that the sun sneaks up on me like my love for you?