I should write a love letter…

To all the things that never were but could have been. To the feelings and actions tucked between heavy spaces, defining me through subtraction. To strangers I’ve met but will never know, to those I could have loved or hurt, and to the rest who might have felt both.

I’d write of all the air kisses and lost smiles, the un-sculpted frowns, words my lips will never shape. I’d write of you, that vague outline of a memory dreamt in another time. We are balanced on the cusp of waking thought, orbital dance, intimate and so alone.

I feel the absence of my lives, the death of each — weighed in exhales — accumulating. I am my rejections, reduced to the essential. To love anything else is to erase myself.

And so this letter, too, can never be….