Eighth Letter

VIII.

a Friday, you laughed at something I said

Dearest Winter,

You laughed at something I said today and then you came and sat beside me. Not across from me or whatsoever. But beside me. So close, close enough for me to feel the warmth of you despite the name you bear, which I was not prepared for, it completely, utterly, inevitably undid approximately 16 months of careful composure in about four seconds.

We talked about nothing in particular and I was burning the entire time and you did not know that and I am simultaneously grateful and devastated that you did not know that. You were just there, easy and warm and real, and I was next to you, burning alive in the most ordinary way, nodding along to a conversation about something I cannot now remember because every single one of my senses and my being was entirely occupied with the fact that you're sitting right beside me.

When you left you said, this was nice. Just that. This was nice. And I said, yeah, and you were already walking away, and I sat there for a long time afterward with those three words and the ghost of your warmth beside me and thought that I cannot do this forever. I cannot keep this inside forever. I want to hold you, darling. Something is going to give.

I am writing this so it isn't tonight.

barely. barely.