I had meant to tell you that I no longer feel like drowning.
I no longer stare at white-capped waves with longing and I no longer stare at the sky like it is something that I will miss, because the moon grabs each constellation by the back of the head and kisses it on the lips ever so gently. She sings them lullabies, too.
I’ve been meaning to tell you, Lover, that some nights when you leave I get so lonely that I can’t turn the lights off. Electricity illuminating these four walls keeps my eyes from closing and my heart from aching like a train wreck most days.
But sometimes I am thousands of pounds of bent metal and railcars and nothing but a disaster on the tracks.
I forgot to tell you, Lover, that coffee tastes better out of ceramic than Styrofoam, and that the days that I drink my coffee black like the clouds are the days that I miss you the most.
The sweet taste would only distract me.
I haven’t told you, Lover, but I built myself a home in you. A few pieces of driftwood from the sea and two sleepless nights were all it took for me to be more comfortable in your skin than my own.
So when I tell you that I am homesick, know that I am only too far away from you,
or the other part of me, to know what to do.
I wanted to tell you, Lover, that I only have no trouble writing when it is about you.
I should tell you, Lover, that every time I hear your voice in my ear from hundreds of miles away, my organs feel like eager teenage boys have set firecrackers in them and are just waiting for them to spark—
and that is both the best and the worst part about it,
because everything I touch receives this new electricity—a power that I didn’t even know existed in my own body before,
and well, I miss you, Lover,
but all of this electricity is starting to hurt.
Lauren Griffith is twenty years old, and enjoys books, poetry, and the color blue. She resides in Southwestern PA.