I miss you. I realized too late that I needed to spend more time in your arms. Our time together was far too short. I remember waking under your heavy blankets with you still clutching on to me in your sleep. It was so warm in our cocoon that I was sweating. The rain pelted the window; the clouds diffused the pale morning light. Any exposed flesh felt the steel cold from outside, but under here we only know our bodies¡¯ flames. Outside meant much more than the cold and rain, it meant coming to terms with my insecurities and loneliness. I realize now that I was holding on enough to keep my footing in the world and allowing you just enough attention to get what I needed. That really was not fair. If I wanted to be in your arms, I should have given all the love and attention that you needed. It¡¯s so amazing that you still care for me after all this time. Sitting here 2,700 miles away I imagine you teetering precipitously on the edge of the continent, your hair dye streaming in with the clouds and bootlaces falling through the gentle hills heading east over the dead bodies still hiding in the woods, victims of demons long since faded into the mist. The torches from the lighthouses guide your way, higher and higher into the blue void. The pink from your hair is washing out more now, staining the sky like we stained our pillows. I¡¯m clutching at your skirt hem, a slight muslin gauze that dissolves to my touch. The blue of the sky is staining your stockings; delicate silk stretching around your calf muscles and following your boots back down to the firmament. I don¡¯t know why these images burn themselves into my eyes.