Beloved no. 5

saries, the day after we fight, the night before he wants something, the morning after I give it. I see them coming. I know what the words are before I even read them.

I file them; I store them; I keep them with the belief that each one is a tiny piece of his heart that he’s entrusting to me. And I say to myself, “You have grabbed me, taken me, and with your salutation of love evermore you have made me yours.� With my finger I trace your handwriting, seeing in the scrawled penmanship your forgiveness for stretch marks, a refusal to see the lines of years stretching from my eyes, an adoration for skin long since blotched in the marks of age. I see love in your words, and that love soothes my aches and cheers my heart.

In more ways than one I ask you to give me your notes. I desire them as much as I desire air. I need your thoughts, your memories of me for when life crashes against the shore and my beauty is dashed against the stagnant cliffs and rocks. Tell me I am your life, your love. Tell me that you need me more than you need your own freedom. Tell me that your own heart would wither without mine. Tell me. Please. In a note meant only for me.