maybe its been too long
”
I wonder if I have forgotten how to write. No, Huckleberry I have not.
Sometimes I think that I forget my feelings, I forget how to feel them. They brush lightly against me like moths finding their way in the dark. Loneliness mostly. Moths know loneliness.
But writing isn’t ever the same to me.
It’s only that, if we don’t write for us, we get lost, don’t we?
We can’t help it see, once the words are in our lungs, we breathe them and breathe them and breathe them for the rest of our lives.
All without ever knowing.
And the doctors say, the doctors say that all we breathe is air.
I’m afraid not doctor, I’m afraid I breathe baby powder, honeycomb incisors, Jiminy Cricket, white colored wine, marching bands, wolves that eat honey until their insides turn to molten gold, maps, whales in my Milkyway, huckleberry, icecream on a Saturday night, chewing candycane and wishing everyone was you.
And when I am with Charlie, I breathe Charlie. Except when I am not with him my lungs begin to forget him.
We now live in the same end of the hall and maybe your words will float through the window and into mine, blowing secrets between wallpaper and blueberry kisses. Our skelton keys and princess beds will be bathed in them
This summer is ours huckleberry. You are all that I need.
Love,
Bambi
