letter 1

My dearest, —, my love,

I know not how long letters take to deliver, but my hope is that you receive this not long after arriving back home. You’re doing your morning routine now, helicopter arms and all, and as I buzz around doing my own scattered morning chaos, I thought I’d add writing to you into that mix. Sometimes I play a game, based on your breathing and the sounds of the mat, what exercise is that? Downward dog heel stretches. I’m getting better at it for sure. Damn what a cute butt.

As you sits now, I can’t help but stare and swoon (in silence of course) at this sereneness that you hold with your presence, the brightness in your eyes that enchant me even when closed, and I wonder about what precious thoughts are rolling across the folds of your brain that your gentle eyelids are guarding. I wonder selfishly if I’m in them the way that you are always in mine. And in another half an hour or so, you’ll bow and slowly rise and come find my lips with the most delicate kiss. And I’ll be reminded, as I so often am, how lucky I am to have the privilege of loving you. I wonder, often these days, if I’ll ever really get used to seeing you here with me. The hope, of course, is that one day I will, that the mornings you are not with me are the anomaly, that I’ll wake expecting your kisses, reach out for your arms and find empty the bed, the towels never damp, the studio too big. But as much as I want to be with you every day, a part of me also hopes that I never do get used to this. That every day I keep waking excited about another adventure with you, that I’ll keep watching your routines like they’re my favorite show, that our mornings together will never not be special. Yeah, I don’t think I will. After all, it’s you that is special, not the mornings, and however we may grow and change together, I am certain that this will not.

You should know that I fall in love with you every day. Even when we’re busy, even when I’m not myself, even when you are not here. This city is doused in shades of —-, and it has never been so beautiful. Sometimes it’s the red of dancing as we wait on dinner to cook, sometimes it’s that delicate light blue post sits kiss, sometimes it’s the shiny silver of snow sliding in Brooklyn or the tender yellow of walking to work on the same sidewalk you carried me down. It’s the burgundy when you give a dollar to the man at the bus station, the verdant green of when you make my parents laugh, the royal purple as you gush about your work. In the wrong light, it’s the color of fear, that one day I’ll see the hues and be without you. But in your arms, by your side, that color fades into the sparkle of faraway stars, and it too is a thing of beauty.

what a lovely two weeks this has been.

Anxiously awaiting the day I can kiss you again, with love,