Now I’m writing about the yearning. About those dreams. About our lake. Chairs standing in the wind. Snow that piles up on trees. There’s a fire in the hearth and in the heart. Cook for me. Make everything good. So that maybe I’ll forget the depths of the soul. The burning heart. I’m cold. I’m tired. Hungry for something more. I’m writing about the colors now. About the dreams. The kids who used to be little. When it seemed like the difficulty was organizing the day-to-day. A moment before everything got so complicated. I’m writing about passion. For you. About a wild longing. Private. A stranger wouldn’t understand. What we had between us. What will be. I’m in between. Writing to you. Words that are far away. Now I’m writing what won’t be sent. What won’t arrive. What will become and be written only to myself. There inside. In the illuminated chambers of the heart. White. Among colorful pillows and soft, thin curtains. There I sit at the table by the long window, now writing letters of love and challenge. Letters of the heart.
I’m writing now. Because that’s the only way I knew. That’s how I was created. How I grew. I’m writing now so that I can live.