Dear S.

It’s technically Spring, but it’s still cold outside.

I remember a few years ago when it got warm in March, and you took me to the park to see the crocuses and daffodils that were just coming up.  You told me March was a month of changes, but we had to pay enough attention or we’d miss them. I’m trying to notice, but the cold still makes it hard to open my eyes.

Whenever I write to you I’m torn between sharing my now, and reminding you of our then.  Now is good, despite the cold, and I’m happy here.  I have friends with warm lips and strong hands.  I have lovers who sing in girl bands at night, and I don’t often dream of having more.  My now is good.

Our then was good too though, wasn’t it? I remember kissing your breasts for the first time, and I remember tasting you for days after you left.  I tasted your mouth and your cunt, and my fingers and lips never let me forget you despite how far away you were. You were right around the corner, and you were so far away.

Sometimes your husband posts something, and I wonder what it would be like to be him. Not the loving and the fucking, because we’ve done all that, but I wonder what it would be like to come home to you every night and see you off in the mornings. I wonder how long we’d keep up the scratching until it gave way to goodnight kisses and morning sex on the weekends.

I’m rambling now, because that’s what memories do.  They take me down the rabbit hole, and I get as lost as can be with so little effort. 

It’s going to get warm soon, and of course, I’ll think of you.  I’ll think of your spring dresses and your summer freckles that come out in May, and I’ll try not to remember too much.

I love you and miss you.  I’m not sure what else there is to say.  You know the rest, or at least you can imagine it.  It’s always the same with me.

With great love, and enduring affection,

Guy New York