My Dear Peter,
There is a masterpiece: internal and wicked, laser-scrawled and syllable-heavy. It surfaces slowly, like pond scum. I often scrape at it industriously, collecting pieces and bits in the spaces between periods and capital letters, on the back of receipts, and on the college-ruled lines of composition notebooks.
Were it set to music we would find it minor-keyed and shocking. Yes. Let's make this happen, if only to say we succeeded in a single thing, together. There is room in my cerebellum for the both of us to grow: crookedly, zigzaggedly. For us each to lean in, your left cheekbone will pin that half of my shrug down. We will no doubt find ourselves swaying in circles as if we were cut out and pasted back onto that overcrowded dance floor. I would hold back motions and words for the first time in my life, letting you lead. Ah, but words are not lyrics when they're left to bleed out on winter's bike paths. I wander worn synaptic trails, wringing my hands and humming oversung pop anthems as if expecting them to bring you sprinting my direction. At the turn of each corner I'm met with more cobwebs and less clarity.
Flakes of your skin fill my pockets like dead leaves. I ache to yank those stray bits of you out to study, maybe to curl up and die on, but the lonely wind screeches and I know if I laid you out: bony and bare, you'd flit up and away from this place.
Oh, my darling Peter, there is a masterpiece in these cells! Please release it.