December 11, 2017

My dearest,

You don’t know this but before I started writing stories about you, for you, I would draw your face on pieces of notepaper, a map of my desire. For my eyes only. The devil I wasn’t afraid of; only tempted by.

Who knew, back then, that you’d be my destiny, and remain so, still?

Those sketches, those lines, are long gone. A wastepaper basket, the garbage truck, some landfill.

But your face remains, and my map too; only now not of desire, but of something stronger and sweeter than what it was back when. Your smile mirrors mine. These wrinkles at the edges of our lips when we kiss are the best lines. These, we sketch together. All it takes is time.

Let’s take our time.

Yours, ever and always.