Postage

I am tired, darling, of check marks on calendars and time zones and “a table for one, please.” Months are nothing more than bridges to where you are. I’m inching down this slope, day by day.

There’s a heaviness between us. I feel it weighing down the bond that stretches between the miles from me to you. I write, hoping a night spent bent over my typewriter and 46 cents in postage can alleviate the burden of unfamiliarity. I write the words I know you need and hide my feelings between the margins. I pray you read those too. Half hearts drawn on envelopes – part of me is yours to keep.

I keep your memory close. Like a smooth pebble in my pocket, I fumble my fingers around thoughts of you. My little secret between the fabric of my coat: the little reminder of unconditional love I find in you.

But now I am bumping into your absence as I stir my morning coffee. I am hitting my knees on the corners of your memory as I move through the dark. I am picking up the words you forgot to say off the floor. Yes, I think if Alexander Graham Bell could have heard how sad our voices sound over the line tonight, he would have given a speech to encourage all the separated lovers who would find comfort in his invention. I dare say he’d mention our names. As I write this, I’m staring at the cream sheets on my bed and the imprint of where my body lies at night, and I can’t help but wonder if all this sadness and all these tears would dissipate if there were two silhouettes, instead of one.