on loving lengthwise

i.

in my near-nineteen years of life i have never wanted something, someone so much.

[no, i swear, not even death itself]


ii.

waking up without you hurts.

even though you don't have one, i slept with my webcam on last night so maybe you could catch a glimpse of me sleeping.

you say i shiver in dreamland, and i tell you that's because i hardly dream --there is nothing in my mind then but grey matter and cold air,  because even with the heat blasting at seventy and four fleece blankets, i have trouble making my own warmth.

you told me that even so, i was smiling. and i said that though i don't remember, the only explanation would be that i was dreaming of you --before you were mine, you were my only dreams worth remembering. now, you're the only ones i ever have.


iii.

going out in winter seems colder than ever without you here.

it makes me think of years ago, when i found that without flesh, it is impossible to insulate bones. you would sit next to me every morning on the bus, and fear would make me try to draw myself in, my body pressed against the cold metal of the wall, heart palpating against my chest. you would offer me your jacket when you saw the way i shook, but i would always say no, and you would ask me until i finally fell asleep.

i hated the cold, but i began to fear warmth --the heat your body gave off, and the way when i brushed against it, you seemed to singe my skin. i convinced myself i was made of ice, and you would melt me away.

i thought i was wrong, when you would wake me and i would be just hardly against you, your jacket laid carefully over me.

now i know i never was wrong at all, but that thawing doesn't mean the end --it means new beginnings.


iv.

when you left this town, i was scared you left forever.

i was scared i would only have memories of the warm boy with kind eyes who wasn't afraid to look in mine the first time he said he loved me. the thought that same day would be our last kept me up at night for weeks --i dreamed of punctuating our last few words with a kiss and instead of asking you to come back, saying i'm sorry i made you wait so long. but i'll be here, right here; so, i suppose, it's my turn to wait for you.

one year later, in that same park, sitting at that same table, when you said you me loved me again and asked if i would be yours, i wasn't about to lie to both of us; not anymore.


v.

i hate when you call me and i'm crying.

like on new year's eve, where i couldn't watch the ball drop because it meant it truly was over. that the year had passed me by, a cloud of smog, and the only solid thing i found in it i could hardly hold. you called me at the count of twelve, but i had considered the year over hours ago, considered letting it be my last --i wanted 2013 to be blown away by the semi-automatic in my father's bedroom, just a second before i had to face it.

except i promised you, years ago, i would never try again to die by my own hand.

and even when you aren't here, you say you love me like a promise. it makes my bones quake and heart flutter to this day --even more when i say it in return, not because it scares me, but because it opens me up, like an old book or antique locket that was long since rusted shut.

you make me feel, and for once, i'm not so afraid of feeling.


vi.

i will always send you letters that say i love you one hundred and thirty eight times, once for each mile between us; at least, until i can tell you just once: only then, in inches.