How are you? I’m surely well, just tired and somewhat ill. Sometimes I think that I’m in Hell and
that this is all a sin, but I know by now what heals a burn and that fire always dims. What’s the
point of snot and tears for what we’ll never have? My mom once said I have a knack for making
good out of the bad.
I’m leaving soon for the woods, and you should come with me. We’ll find a lake and build a
house to keep away the bees. We’ll have a cat and a garden too and I’ll be warm and so will
you— we’ll dance outside and skip and sway to licks of light from golden flames, we’ll prance
around the pit we dug and shimmer with the lightning bugs. When we tire we’ll say goodnight to
the birds and deer and fish. We’ll lay each other down to sleep with nothing left to wish. I’ll run
my hand across your chest and place my lips against your neck— we’ll close our eyes to
candlelight and embrace the sweet and tender night.
Here we are, with nothing to do.
If I left tomorrow, would you come too?
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 