Dara,
Nothing is written in stone. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I’ve been thinking Dara, we’re not the sun and the moon. You’re not a flower I feed steaming water to. I’m not a machine. I’ve been thinking how I imagine you think of things, through numbers and logic. We haven’t been adding anything up to get an answer, we’ve been subtracting things that don’t apply to us. I don’t decide what we do, Dara, but all I know is that with all of the sweet talking, the endless crying, and beating around the bush we do I will still be as stuck to you the next day as I was the night before.
I wrote you a story about how you had the ocean in the palms of your hands. Do you remember that? It slipped through the crack inbetween them and fell into the ground, leaving behind the diamonds you mistook as waves, then you threw them into the grass.
Let’s do that Dara. Let’s be that water that slipped through the cracks. Let’s paint the town red for all I care. Let’s paint it green, if it will remind you of the forest around me. I’m going to be that water, Dara.
I’ll be there before you know it,
Pickett
Pickett Fargo,
If you come to me I can’t let you leave. I want you to run your fingers through my hair. I want you to kiss my cheek and pretend we saw each other yesterday. I want you to brush the leaves out of my face, that morning when we wake.
I want you to turn my city life into dust and blow the remains into the grass,
Dara
Oh, Dara,
How I wish you grew on trees, I would have enough of you to last me a lifetime! Sometimes I do wish we could turn back into the kids we once were. We could have learned to be the smaller part of everyone else. I should never have moved so far away from home. I could have stayed in that concrete covered place as long as I had your little hand to hold.
Dara it’s time for me to come to you. These leather boots will feel the rough ground of Manhattan for the first time in their life. I’ll whisper those songs you love to hear, and I’ll put your name in every one.
I’ll find you the freshest, greenest grass to rest on. I’ll make a place next to you and well fall asleep together to wake up, burried by the fallen leaves. Dara, I love you.
You know that your tears are worth more to me than anything I could ever own,
Pickett
Pickett,
I read your letter at work, I went to the roof to enjoy your handwriting in solitude. I will be the moon to your sun Pickett. I did enjoy those times at the lake. My palms ache to hold your hand and wet our feet at the shore. I’ll wipe the tears from your eyes with my dress, like on those sickly nights when I came to comfort you. I miss our childhood Pickett. I havent swam since I last saw you. When we were kids everything was different, we chose a pool instead of a lake, and our parents drank cocktails inside while we enjoyed the sunshine and company.
My eyes throb to think of the sun shining down on the dark roof of your house. My back aches when I imagine sleeping on the grass and leaves behind your home. I have seen enough of this city, and even writing from the top of large building can not make it look pretty. I have nothing but vain outlets of life here. Make me a bed in the leaves and grass, I’m coming home.
I’ll hold your hand once more by the lake, these tears are not worth your absence,
Dara
To the one who makes the birds sing,
I write to you unforced and kindly. I read your letter at the lake this morning, I read it aloud and the birds quieted. The lake is flat without your splashing and city scent mixing with the unsalted water. The rocks are still pushed into the dirt from your feet stepping on them. The trees always seem greener when you pass them by.
I love you how the sun loves the moon, even if they onlt meet every eclipse. I’ll say I love you more times than there are words in that song I sing to you.
I miss our songs Dara, and the lawnchairs in the woods. I cry when I think of your voice rolling gently through the trees in perfect harmony with mine. My fingers long to feel your warm skin tense as they touch it. I promise I will never sweep my porch again, as long as it means I can stare at your footprints and savor the memories of my beautiful Dara.
Swim with me,
Pickett
My wet nosed lover,
I’m afraid of being burried. Any time in the ground would mean any more time away from you. I crawl out of my lonely bed and shallow apartment to look in my mirror and see you’re not there. I’ve walked these roads and found my way to wilderness many times before. I live to touch my naked toes on the ivey you sing to me on just one more time. Take me there Pickett.
I love you like the soil loves to be brightened by a sunshine filled shower. I love you like the scratches the branches left on my arms, that day you put my name into that well known song that escapes my mind. Pickett, being around you explains any feeling I have that meanders through my thickened mind.
I miss your fingers rolling gently on my head and the dirt that stays on your shoes as I look down. I can almost feel sweeping your porch, from the muddy footprints we left.
Fill my empty apartment with your muddy footprints, darling,
Dara
Dara,
If you nudge me with your felt tipped pens, I’ll nudge back with my pencil. I agree that men aren’t machines but that should not make us seeing each other anything but routine.
Dara, could you puff smoke and blow rings into rings with me? I miss our balcony talks and breakfasts in bed. I’ll make your eyes water with joy, and your brows perk in delight. I’ll ask the old man down the path to sell me a beachwater blouse. I’ll get the natives to shape moccasins into your graceful feet’s liking.
Could I bury you in snow and dig until I strike your that golden streak in your hair? I’ll find you again and we’ll leave these places and pace the snow for the rest of forever.
I’ll go buy a shovel,
Pickett
Pickett,
You’re right. Our times together leave me wondering the same. I feel robotic when I’m away from your body. Take me to the water once more, flickering or not. Pickett my senses are in dire need of fine tuning and theres no machine that can play the right notes. Man is no machine, Pickett. Do I have a choice but to not live with you? I can’t stay there and you can not stay with me. Let’s make a pact to not talk or think like this any more. I’ll say it in writing.
Pickett, just know that I love you loving me with your eyes. I hope that your pretty orbs long to see me as much as mine do you.
Write to me like you did before,
Dara
Dara,
You dont make our situation easy. The second your pen hits paper im caught. Your words remind me of everything about you.
I think too much, Dara. I wonder if this is right for us. I wonder if your second guessing attitude shows any foresight on our times to come. I wonder if we are wrong. I feel terrible because I can not comprehend the burden of our love. What is our love dara. It has me lost.
Answers needed,
Pickett
Pickett,
I have a strange feeling after these three days. At first it felt as if I was leaving home, but I was going home. I’m homesick, Pickett. Your forest life and tire swing have captured me, and I’m not resisting. I’m breathing apple-peel breaths towards the canals here and every sweet, red bite reminds me of your grin. I went to the market today. I found a pair of drums, we will play them one day, I promise. Your brown whiskers brushed my face… the scratches are forever, and I’ll love them as if they were going away tonight. The beach was cold, but I had your hand to keep mine warm. It’s also very cold where I am Pickett, my hands are frosted and my fingers and numb. You’re not here to hold them.
Flicker with me,
Dara
