My puzzle, my peace, my empty cup,

I write this on your skin with my tongue. Your body is solid as concrete under my hands, and now when I ask you a question, you answer me. Grief and doubt opened the path to this moment, my cheek on your chest, our pulses syncopating.

You’d been seeking me, which I should’ve known but feared to believe. I was so busy searching that I almost didn’t see you, and you called my name and shocked me into stillness. I thought I had yet to cross plains of sulfur to find you, but there you were. You held me so close, so long, that our spleens became fast friends. In that moment I swam another sea, the terrible ocean that filled my lungs when I thought I might ever lose you again, ever again lose you from my arms.

And of course I will lose you again. Won’t I. Every day I will lose you and find you, find you and lose you. And if we orbit each other long enough, still one of us will lose the other into the Void. So goes the sad, fierce joy of existence.

For today, it is enough to lock my fingers into your hair and press my body against yours until our nerves entangle. It is enough to tease and talk and work and worry and fuck and find, and find, and find, and find, and find.

Start here: The First Letter