You are my sun; nothing outshines your light. Even your absence, Commands the moon to glow, and solar system orbits your admiration for me.
Najia
You wrote that at five in the morning, sent it, and then said good morning pookie like it was nothing.
Take me to your heart, for the soul is weary, And longing after you, like fire, burns within me And longing after you, like fire, burns within me. You are life, and you are the light in my sight And from the wounds of sorrow, your eyes heal me.
Sagan
Sent, and then immediately, in the same breath: who’s poem is it
Photographs
A letter
There’s no occasion.
That’s rather the point.
It isn’t your birthday. It isn’t an anniversary. I haven’t done anything I need to make up for. I made this because I wanted all of it written down in one place, somewhere you can come back to on a bad week.
You once sent me everything you needed from me, all in one go, at speed, mostly in capitals. I’ve read it more times than you know. This is my answer.
You want us to be each other’s person — all of it, all the lore, everyone’s business. So: whatever you tell me stops with me. When somebody says don’t tell anyone, they’ve already told two people who function as one, and it goes no further than that. I’ve never once been tempted.
You wait for me to text first and then you match whatever energy I gave you. Stop doing that.
I have never opened a pile of messages from you and thought it was too much. I’ve opened one and wished there were twenty.
Send them out of order. Send them at two in the morning. Send them about nothing at all. I’m not keeping score and I never was.
In public I want the same thing you want. You said an arm around the waist makes you feel presented rather than loved, and you’re right that it’s a completely different gesture. You are not something I show people. So it’s your hand, and I let go of it the second you want both of them back.
I know the code, by the way. When you call me dude or bro you’re either relaxed, or shy and trying to kill the butterflies, or quietly furious with me. I can tell them apart now. The middle one is my favourite and I have no intention of stopping whatever causes it.
You told me events are better when I’m there even if I don’t say a word. So I’ll be there — actually there, not in the corner on my phone — and I’ll stay to the end, including the boring part where everyone stands around looking for their shoes.
You want to be able to give everything without checking whether it came back. You shouldn’t have to ask for the good thing, and you shouldn’t have to work out afterwards whether it counted. Making that obvious is my job, not something you should have to keep track of.
Then there’s the one I’m worst at. You want me open, and instead I go quiet, or I get defensive and then feel bad about being defensive. I’m not going to tell you it’s already fixed. I’ll tell you I’ll keep starting the sentence, especially on the days I’d rather not.
And you got there before I did anyway. After a conversation that could have gone badly and didn’t, you told me you never wanted me worrying about being defensive — before I’d even admitted to you that I was. Anyone can be generous on an easy day. You were generous on a hard one. That’s what I’d point to if somebody asked me why you.
So here it is. You can come to me with anything. I’ll show up, in the room and in the harder ways. I trust you with everything I’ve got. And you can hand me all of yours without once wondering whether it’s safe.
You called us each other’s half. I think you have that slightly wrong. You’re the whole thing — I’m just trying to be worth standing next to.
I love you, pookie.
Yours, always
Sagan