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I write you love letters
just to let you know
I’m thinking about you,

even in the soft
enigmatic silences between
touch and conversation,
or even when you sleep
and I finger the texture
of every minute before
it is time for me
to gently rock
your senses back
to wakefulness,
or even when you’re away
from me, driving on
a highway in Windy City,
preoccupied in
the responsibilities
that make you
the man that you are

for love doesn’t
exist in a vacuum
but is a living thing
that breathes even
in the blank spaces

and there are things
still best expressed
in writing,
fragrant fruits and flowers
plucked from boughs
of roadside trees of
the mind’s free wandering,
snapshots of dreams and
sweet childhood memories and
lines from romantic songs
and random things
I saw and heard that
would otherwise go
unnoticed or forgotten if
I weren’t sharing them
with you,
their petals
pressed between the pages
of moments spent consigning
them to permanence
in our private history

and I lay my soul down
each time,
on the surface of the white
of either paper or screen
and present it to you
all girlish-like,
folded real nice and
sealed with a kiss,
so you can collect all
copies and translations of me
like fireflies in a jar

the slow migration of words
into a summer that endures

“Tiffany & Co. – True Love Grows”
by photographer Peter Lindberg