Love letter to the light

You ask me if I miss you.
We are waiting to meet again, in the distant abstract future outside a certain metro station at a certain time, with that sun shining, glinting off my hair, your hair, our eyes. You in that shirt, your familiar shoes, you’ll look at me with your searing eyes (it always amazed me how you seemed to shine and how everyone I saw after you I held up against your light, how they were always somehow dim and dull) and we’ll know certainly that I’ve missed you.
There’s no one who knows me like you do and loves me in the peculiar way you do, whose raised eyebrows can do things to me that no one else can, that the sight of you outside the O____ metro was so bright and beautiful on that European summer afternoon that I for a moment was afraid to see you again and lose you again.
So nothing has changed. I still would rather have you with me, I would rather be in your bed than my own, but failing that I want you to fit into me and me to fit into you here, I will share my pillows and sheets and blankets that I allow someone else into but he is not you and she is not you, and no one will fill this space but you.
I can never leave you, no matter who you’re talking to on the phone while I’m curled up in front of my computer screen reaching desperately for pixels of you, every raising of your eyebrows, every twitch of your lips, the way you roll and the way you smoke, the crackly sound of your inhale. The way you reach to your screen like you’re reaching for me, I almost believe that you can reach across the oceans and touch me. The way you take off your sweater and your shirt, the shrug out of the armholes, that time we both slid into one sweater, if we do that again we’ll have so much more room. I love you in such a strange, half-requited way, in the way you don’t believe in and can’t sustain or give back.
We are seasonal. We are less than seasonal. For three years again I will hold you in my head and talk to you every now and then, we are a leap year. I will find other people, I will work and study and read, I will date and laugh and have fun, I will cry now and then and be disappointed, I might even one day be heartbroken by someone that is not you, and then in three years I will stand in front of you again as you peel off another layer of my skin and marvel at how tender I am, how sensitive I have become, and run your fingers along my skin and say this, this is my favorite color, but you don’t understand.
You the amalgam of my favorite colors, you are the world of the colors I permit myself to see. No colors exist in the spectrum outside of you. Brown is your hair and blue is your eyes, white is the skin over your ribs and red will be your lips when you’re done kissing me, purple are the veins in your eyelids, black will be your pupils as they dilate after a joint or when you have just been or will be presently my consummate half. Pink are the pads of your fingertips and orange is the sun through the web between your finger and thumb, green is that one vein that runs across your hipbone…sounds are you also, the mm and hmm and ah, the haha, the oh, the breath down my neck as you slide in behind me, the kiss between my shoulders, the kiss on the back of my neck, the teeth running along my ear, the whisper of fingers along my clothes, the way you breathe, your gasp of surprise and almost of awe, your smile, your voice, your voice your voice, always and in every dream, your eyes and your hair and your voice and I wake up.
Do you see now how precious you are to me?
Yes I miss you, I miss you a lot.