First Letter

I.

a Tuesday, sometime in November

Dearest Winter,

My mind will never find the answer as to why I am writing this. I don't think you will read it, that was why I found the courage to write this letter. I saw you today through a window, the cafe one, the one with the fogged glass, and you were laughing at something couldn't hear, and I thought, there it is. The precise shape of the living thing I will never deserve. I've memorized every single angle of your face, and I do not know what do I do with myself.

It is a strange condition, this. To want so badly and to know, with such certainty, that the wanting is enough. That it has to be. You are not an equation I am trying to solve. Because to me, being a weather suits you the best. You are like the particular quality of light that exists only in the last ten minutes before sun sets and darkness engulfs the world, which you cannot hold and cannot slow and can only stand beneath, tilting your face up, already grieving it.

Cordially, in the only way available to me.