I tried to write a sonnet last night and wanted to entitle it “For You” and I scribbled it neatly on the papery skin of my arm. The last two lines didn’t fit.

The time I knew who you were and what your name was, I imagined a red ribbon wrapping both our names together, just as I imagined your two arms enclosing me in a tight distorted ring. I also wished that your fingers fitted the in-between spaces in mine.

The days there would’ve been half-feet of snow litter on the doorsteps leading to your living room, I recited a love letter to the empty invisible ears of the breezy air. How I wish I could write with the words in my head, a love letter I’ll willfully read to you every night before you went to bed and sleep.

The case of the matter is, at least for us, that I have always wished that I was for you. And I wonder if I am, if I really am.

There are still two lines left to finish this sonnet.

Still, there exist these palpable spaces waiting to be filled in.

And there is still a letter of love that you must hear from no one else, but me.