I appreciated your reply. There were sleepless nights of wondering after I sent off my first missive. I wondered if my words would be offputting or even disturbing. I am soothed that they were not and, from what you wrote, they were perhaps even desired.
Perhaps now I’ll go too far? Now that you’ve given me the proverbial inch.
I have seen it written that longing is better than love. That seemed profound once, but now it seems naive. Is hunger better than a meal? Still, I write this knowing that longing is all I will have with you. I move forward knowing that we can never meet or touch or even look into each other’s eyes.
Though I have looked into your eyes, you just didn’t know I was the author. You didn’t know I was in love with you. You didn’t know how my chest aches for you and my blood races and the secret places I am ashamed of burn for you.
The whys are boring, I assure you. The whys are banal and cruelly ordinary. My life, for the most part, has been chosen for me. My husband, my family, the color of my prison cell. Just know that a letter from you will brighten my day, my week, my life.
I hope my words might have some fraction of the same quality for you. Though I know your cage is not yet complete. You still have a chance to be free and I hope you take it.
No, that is a lie. Part of me hopes you don’t. If you are free then there is little chance you will correspond with me. So I am cruel and wish for a cellmate.
I once saw you in the park. We were younger and you wore a summer dress. My mind was crude and clumsy as it swallowed the vision of you. The sweetness and brilliance of your mind faded and all I saw was the ruddy blush in your cheeks, the fullness of your lips, and the swell of your breasts.
In my dreams, that day and days after, I imagined being the grass crushed under your knees. I imagined the sunlight dapped through the fabric of your dress as it enveloped me. I pictured the secret softness of your thighs against my cheeks and wet cotton on my lips.
Equally, conflictingly, I imagine my head on your lap. Your fingers in my hair, as we discuss poetry and music and the passing clouds. There is hardly a difference in my desperation for these two modes of connection.
No, that is a lie, too. When I think of talking about love with you, I swoon. When I think about kissing you, feeling your hot skin against mine, tasting what is under that cruel cotton, I am destroyed.
Oh, to be destroyed by you. To be destroyed by love. Longing is simple, is basic, is trite. Longing is nothing in the face of the obliteration brought by the realization of love.
I beg of you, destroy me.