“To me, you are everything.”

You are sepia toned photographs full to the brim with memories so long ago put away.
You are boxes of old love letters.
You are broken pencils riddled with too many bite marks to be worthy of repair.

To me, you are the wind whispering wantonly in the trees.
You are the music of leaves rustling in the lusty breeze.
You are water running silky over my fingers against rocks and silt.
You are the feeling of cool grass against my bare skin, soft and caressing.

I put my pen to paper and carefully scratch out these words in the darkest black ink, the nib of my pen so old fashioned and so satisfying, frequently dipped and re-dipped in the plastic inkwell. At the mahogany desk that still smells of autumn, I write to you a letter that I never I intend to send—at least, not to you.

Rain stains this paper like tea, tears wet the wood like rain.

I find that my guts betray me. They are foolish and guilty, twisted and worn where I want to be nothing more than a reservoir, fixed out of necessity and maintained for the same reason. And yet I can’t deny the cracks slowly inching along my bones like a surreptitious virus. I can’t deny that the air tastes of cyanide, that each breath is a slow but willing sacrifice.

The essence of my letter is simple, juvenile, predictable. It tells you, the illustrious you, the elusive you, the beautiful you about the stupidest things brewing inside of me. The things that no words can name, so clichés stand in their places like reckless dolls to be shunned and tossed aside. They are nothing more than decoys. The real words, each jewel is just on the tip of my tongue, waiting to roll past my lips but yet, they are unyielding.

I sign my letter with something impersonal (“Sincerely, Midas”) because I’m too ashamed of what I’ve written. Not because it’s in any case dear to me, but because it’s so deceitful and so far from the truth. It’s a mere movie projection of my thoughts because I haven’t yet been able to put them to name, put my pen to paper and be honest with myself.

I can’t quite decide what you are.

“Everything” seems to cover it.

For now, I’m satisfied. I roll up the piece of paper that bears all my stupid little sayings, my little clichés, my little lies and walk to the window paned with glass that glows silver in the bare light filtering through it. The sky outside is pallid gray, swimming with wispy clouds that seem to cling to each other’s tails in order to keep circling the earth. The sun is hidden just beyond them, misty and dim, yet the little attic office seems bathed with healthy radiance, filled with the smell of autumn and trees, of golden leaves and river water.

The latch gives way to my gentle fingers and I push the window open, placing my hands on the cool sill, your rolled up letter crushed inside one clenched fist. The air smells deceptively sweet. I open my hand and let this heavy little piece of paper catch flight in the soft breeze that only bears it so far before it drifts into the river below. The ink stains the water as it runs like broken glass on the surface of the rocks, sharp and beautiful.

Frustrated, I bite my lower lip, gnawing it gingerly in thought. For now, “everything” stands to be my word, my cover up, my lie. But this dissatisfaction still wells within me like heat leftover from a walk two hours ago, trapped in my clothing, under my skin.

I return to my desk where my notebook lies in wait of me, the inkwell still open, my pen lying on the handkerchief well-stained with use. I wipe the nib down, only to dip it back into the black ink to start anew.

“To me, you are everything.”