I think they do not know yet, that I make an excellent long distance lover.
Of all the faces of love, this is the one I like most. The years spent yearning, the need to touch and be touched, urgent conversations that are whispered when the house sleeps, the letters that take with them my smell. I waited, patient and frantic. I lived and died a thousand times, with the unbearable lurching of my heart, with tears that wet the phone cradled by my neck. I built monuments to this affliction, I thought them to be indestructible lace. I tended to this love, and I sometimes thought I may nurture it to its death.
How else to love?
Forgive me then, if I do not know how to love in close contact.
Even if my dreamscapes appear to be washed away by the banalities of a shared domestic space, even if the monuments turn out to be sandcastles, know that my love resides in instructions uttered on the bed, in laughs that erupt without warning, in the way I foresee your movements.