Dear Writer,

I could tell you I love you, have made space for you. Imagine us going to bed each night --and when we do, we measure the colors and breaths in our bedspread, divide this number by the amount of time it took to get us there. I could tell you about a mountain--we are one--see our arms leaked together. How from inside, we burst forth a fountain.

Could tell you about living across your cheeks--my thighs spread, my eyes open, my lips ready.

Could tell you, after the first class I took with you, I waited for you by the fountain. Watched you talk to other students, watched you take your time. Closed my eyes imagining how it must have felt for you to take your time. How it felt for you to stand in front of the room and teach when I knew you really wanted to be writing...

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