Ryebread

Dear John,

Really? Really? Really? Really? Oh my god, oh my god, OH. MY. GOD. Is this really happening?

Are we really listening to Leonard Cohen and making out in your bed? How are you such a hot babe? I especially like when you put your beard there. YES, there..... down there. Right there, god.

Ummm, I think I am probably dreaming. I never got on that plane, I never went swimming on the roof, I never snuck that whisky into the bar. You didn't kiss me behind the building, and you didn't hold my hand. I didn't sit on your lap or whisper in your ear. We never went back to yours and we're not actually here lying in bed the next morning. This must be metaphysical.

WAIT. Did I just hear that correctly? You may have written a song about me? You're band doesn't even know? Excuse me, but is this reality? It's a good song too. How long ago did you write this? THAT long ago? Are you kidding? How long have you been holding these fantasies, these secrets? How did I not even have the slightest idea?

I want you to sing it to me from the tops of buildings. I want to fly with you. I want this ocean between us to evaporate when I blow on it. I want to kiss your eyelids when you sleep.

Someday?

Love In a Hot Climate

Little of our bodies touched the mattress or couch or counter. We were always mid-air, a dance and nothing less. She was the choreographer and led me into the most beautiful sex. Partly it was breath, shaping of breath. It was tender, but at times she liked it to be just a little rough. We choked and panted and bit and licked. We wanted to feel, and we constantly discovered new things. Sex as invention and expression. Sex as a refusal to remain separate or alone. Sex as a refusal to believe the world.

A loft lined with windows looked down on all the bubbles, our own hidden space like the cockpit of an airship, our private Hindenburg. We never used the air-conditioning. We liked the sweat, the slick movements, the strands of wet hair over our eyes. She wore light summer dresses with nothing underneath. Clothing was costume and prop, used for tying or wrapping but never withholding.

- David Vann

What They Call Love

Dear Jane

I wish I was a better lover.

I wish I was a better friend.

I wish I was a better partner.

I wish I could open up to you.

I wish, I wish, I want.

I want you, and I wish I was good enough.

But I'm not and I'm glad you love me just the same.

John