My Darling,

I know you hate the winter. The bitter, cold, forbidding of it all. You moved west as soon as you could and, of course, I followed, as I always have. You’ve been sick for a long time. Perhaps it was the cold that did it, doctors used to say. Your mother would prepare all kinds of medicines. Your father would wrap you up and hold you close. There wasn't much else they could do.

That’s why I’ve decided to come for you in the summer, a time that seems to be the most comforting. You’ll make a trip back home and go for a swim in the lake you always visited with your father. It’ll have melted by now because of spring, your second favorite season.

And when you dip yourself into the warmth, slow and careful, it’s been a while since you’ve done this, I’ll wrap myself around you. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. I’ll be careful, too. Because your lungs have turned weak, and the water will draw you in, breath by breath.

And I suppose, in slow, languid consequence, you will sink into my arms. I will drink you in. And oh, how lovely you will feel.

Though, sometimes, I may dream too much. Because there are moments I find myself yearning for another universe, another lifetime, one maybe where we could be friends.

I’d run into you in the cafe where you work. I’d smile, I wouldn’t be able to help it; your eyes would pull me in. I’d get something you recommend, because what do I know about coffee? And there we would exist, amongst the bustling world and the lives of those around us. You’d smile at how tense I was, because, of course, I’m nervous. I’m trembling. And then I’d say something sudden and perhaps amusing, because you’d take the words right out of my mouth and it would go dry. I would pay for my drink. And then perhaps you’d think about scrawling your number on the warm paper cup, and briskly doing it anyway. You’d notice how cold my hands are when our fingers touch, briefly, as I collect my coffee. And I would apologize, because it’s cold. So cold. And I’m shivering. Freezing. But for you, perhaps I’d make a trip to the sun. I’d pull fire from my fingertips and burn. I’d burn and burn until you found yourself warm with sweat.

We’d meet for dinner or a walk near the park, and I’d make sure you were warm all night. We’d talk about music and art and books. Places you’ve found to escape. Things I’ve found to sustain myself all these years. And when the night ends, you’d welcome me up to yours. We’d drink. We’d talk some more. I’d try to think about anything else but your lips. And when your eyes finally tire, you’d lay down against my body, my arm going numb and your mind slowly falling into darkness. I’d make sure you’d dream for as long as you liked. I’d be there waiting for you to awake.

Because I want you. Not for necessity or regulation. I’ve known of your time for ages.

My darling, I want you. I’m aching with hunger. I'm sore with desire. Perhaps I am selfish for thinking of you endlessly. I am selfish to crave you the way humans do. Needing you the way the religious pray. I know you may think of me, but not in the way I want. Not in the way I wish.

So here I write these words onto paper that your eyes will never read. Perhaps I will burn it when it’s finished, because I am a fool for thinking of things. I am irrational and hopeless. All I am in the end is an afterthought. An idea. A whisper.

In all this darkness, you are the only thing I see. But perhaps the only thing you see in me is darkness.

Even so, I ask you this: would you still dread me, if you knew I’ve been waiting for you all this time? Would you still fear me, if I hovered over your drowsy body, if I lured you to sleep with my stories. My whispers, my memories and my dreams of souls I've collected. Surely you know by now how long you’ve enthralled me. My darling. My dearest. And if I stand over you, murmuring good night, caressing your soft skin, would you still be frightened? Would you still curse me, if I decided to take you with me?

Would you still kiss me, if you knew I’d take your breath away?

To you, my love.

The End