the water is green and gold today. when i tell you i haven't see a day so clear in years, i mean it. this is a love letter. the last time we spoke was three months ago and i've been counting down the days until it won't sting when i call you back. i'm still writing for you and mom says to write for myself but haven't you read everything up till now? you are not separate from this. you never will be. this is a love letter. i have slept on the old white couch with a thousand pillows for the last 2 weeks and i can't not think about how it hugs me the way you did. warm in the worst places. my body aches every day but i still come back to it. this is a love letter. i swear, i'm not sad about it. there are no tears to fall into the lake or down the drain; the hair on the shower wall paints your lips as kindly as possible but i swear— i'm not sad about it. this is a love letter. this is not love. this is a letter. this is code for you to decipher and crack until i am nothing but bones and you are whole again. this is a love letter. recipient unnamed; ambiguous enough to wriggle out of its grip. this a letter. this is you, saying you wouldn't speak to me again, and me, saying, "good."
