If I write an exquisite place, if I write it with the intimate detail of a poet describing a lover, so specific that the words become a painting – if I write it, can I go there? Can I step inside the page, into a place where he is so far away that I dare not miss him?

If I write about the walls of my heart, tiny tears sliding down them like wax upon the surface of a lit candle, will these walls melt in on themselves? Will they burn off the remnants of this almost-love, leave an open space I can begin to fill up again?

If I write about the blue of his eyes, write it into hymns about skies and oceans and old denim jeans, write it until I have exhausted every possibility of a blue vision, will his eyes fade from memory? Will that particular color, those heavy brows, that lingering stare be less familiar? Will his become just another set of blue eyes that met mine in passing, soon to be forgotten?

I will write every inch of his skin to stop missing him. I will fill notebooks to be able to wake up on the other side, to leave this in a big, inky mess upon my floor…

(If I find any other words, I will tell a different story.)

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