Dear Tara.
I know you know this: every minute that has passed since I last opened my eyes against yours has been an increasingly stretched hour. I am considering naming each day that passes without inhaling your exhale at least one time, a week. I sincerely hope you will not find the age that I will be freshly wearing the next time you see me unattractive; but each month that I don’t see you buries itself so jarring against my skin that I have wrinkled harder than my twenty years are worth.

What I mean is, my watch and calendar have conspired against me. Sometimes I lie down and close my eyes as if to sleep, and open them an hour later to see them proclaim it already the next day. The sun is in on it too. They all tell me I just miss you a day’s worth each hour.

If this were true, it would help explain how few sunrises I have seen in the year since our fingers unlaced.

I have been wearing your memory heavy, like a wool perfume; it often overwhelms me with warmth and sweetness, and even strangers have noticed how lovesoaked I am.

What I mean is, the letters in your name sometimes fill my mouth so aggressively, they spill out quicker than I can catch them. They have flooded the rooms of a handful of strangers, who are now also vowing their love for you. I have told them that whenever they are ready, I have an open challenge for a race from here, to you.

Because I have no other choice, I will win.

The problem with two asteroids falling in love is that they have a whole lot of space to fill. And so sometimes, the radius of their orbit around each other needs to expand. And with every inch outward, space gets a whole lot bigger and a whole lot colder.

What I mean, is I have written “home” between my arms, and will someday bring you home.

What I mean, is I miss you. Come home to me.

What I mean, is I will see you soon. It will never be soon enough.