I have come to accept that I will never have you like a cup of everyday morning coffee. What I do have is shoved down deep into the depths of me. On occasions I would read your scribbled letters, imagine you as I lay wringing your paper for a fresh drop of ink. I make fists out of loving frustrations. Crushing your ink strokes and paper between the patella. A shifting replacement of the lasting feel of you for this is the closest I will ever get to having you.
