I know this girl. In her, I see the sun, moon, and stars. She lights everything for me, for she is everything for me. She creates the world anew each time I see her, swinging sweet winds in the wake of her hips. This girl, I love her. I have loved her for years, though it seems to me that there has never been a time when I have not been madly in love with her.

This girl, she thinks that she is not enough for me. This is my fault, the vast weight on my shoulders. Have you ever seen something so beautiful that, at first, it blinded you? And then, each day after that, you grew greedy for it? Like a foggy mountain sunrise, that fills you up inside, until, morning after morning, you are rising before dawn, dragging yourself outside to feel the warmth of rays upon your face. Imagine, for a moment, that you could talk to that sunrise, tell it what it meant to you.


Imagine, for a moment, that you began to blame it for the existence of clouds that veiled it, for rainy days when you could not feel it kissing your skin, for times when you slept through daybreak and awoke to the afternoon light. Imagine that you screamed and cried to this sunrise, yelling to it that the world should always be in the midst of sunrise; that you would travel over mountain and field, chasing its glow until night was abolished.


Imagine, even worse, that you yelled to this sunrise that it lacked colors and hues, that it could be brighter, that it should find your doorstep more often. Imagine that, whenever you felt cold or alone, you cried to this sunrise, shedding tears over it which it grappled for, horrified at your sorrows.


And so I break her, time and again, demanding more, crying of my sorrows and past heartaches. I am blind, fumbling in the dark and, sometimes, not seeing that she is upset when I am sad, that I don't have to tell her why. She is upset enough that she doesn't have a cure in her back pocket.


And so I find myself, for this very dew stained goddess of moonlight has left me in the red of her brake lights, in rain sodden streets that kick up tears and cannot quell her sorrows. I am at a loss, roses and chocolates, cards and teddy bears. There is a sorrow in her eyes that cries a feeling of disappointment in herself, one that I too often fail to take seriously, one that I am far too careless around.


Darling, your company is my supernova, your presence my fix on ephemera. Your closeness to me this very night was nothing short of catalytic euphoria, your unexpected and unprecedented step through my front door a star laden sigh of joy. Every moment that you spent tangled with me in the darkness of my night room's white carpet is bliss to me, the afterthought my addiction. Every touch of your skin, whisper of your hair, caress of your lips: ecstasy. For me, you create everything, you birth all, you are the entirety of my knowings and yearnings. There is no greater pleasure for me than time spent with you, and there is no, no, no reason for you to be sorry.


As for your loss of pleasure: I do not doubt that you enjoyed your time with me immensely, as well. I do not doubt the sanctity and the enormity of the fever that we create and foster within each other. And I do not doubt myself as your lover, this you must know as well. Dearest, there is always a hope on some future horizon. We have a thousand forevers (is time not in our palms, as well?) to discover your pain's cause and remedy.


Baby, there is nothing that I want more than you, there is nothing that I enjoy more than you. Tonight was amazing for me, in so many ways. Tonight was a starburst's kiss on swelling waves, it was the manifestation of my indigo well of your absence sent hurtling over our collective cliff. Tonight was amazing, intense, heart throbbing and spirit lifting. There is nothing, nothing that I enjoy so much as you.


Please, believe me when I say that you have no need to be sorry. I would have chased my vision of the back of your car down the highway, were it not for the ripples of others under our moon. Your harbor eyes and sea foam lips stay with me, my thoughts tangled with you, always. There is no need to press the hope of my remembering you into my palm, for I do, ever and always.


I do.