‘I heartbreak-read the letter full of love you wrote to her. This is mine to you. To your swag, to your smile, to your white heart and black mind.

To the elegance of the bones on your right wrist, circled in the same red as mine.

I find now, the fifth time I rewrite this, that, yet again, all the words have staled. There are new things to love, again.

You can do anything. I've seen you ship ideas across the world, treat madness into art, flip through cultures like an ABCD textbook (that you could've written anyway), grow me up, feel me down and, even while removed a million miles in time and space, show me exactly what a man can do to a girl.

And it has been all these years where we have brushed past each other in single, solitary moments that have lain scattered like fairy dust upon my skin, which have all come together to make me know, without doubt or question, these few things—

I know you are the one for me. The only one who can keep up with (and race ahead of) me. The only one who will see the beauty in my insanity, who will take my hand and guide me around the dark instead of trying to pull me out of it. And love, I know I'm the only one who'll play piano for you on these keys, the only one who'll feel the whole story behind your scotch mouth, feel the gravity of your fingers, the weight of your mind along every line on my body.

I know that—for the soul only you can shake, for the life of breathless exhilaration only you can create, for all those things that are and that could be—it will always be you.

And I wait, in constant trepidation, for a terrible pronouncement—a new love, a death, an engagement, a marriage.

Love me. Let me love you. Give me the right to need you. You should know—I already do.

I told myself that I would wait to find the right time to give it to him and went back to man the door, automatically smiling and welcoming people in, asking them to please let me know if there was anything they needed. The party started winding down, white wine running dry, and autographed books, destined for decorative bookshelves, being carried out by manicured hands. My goodbyes met with even less acknowledgement than my hellos; alcohol had whittled pretensions at manners down to nought.

What had earlier just been a passing note in my mind now jangled my already edgy nerves. And when another person I recognized from another grand party swept by me as I greeted her, I heard my voice call out, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, I was speaking to you.’

She turned around, her expression surprised. ‘What?’