I wish I could write you out.

As I sit here, remembering, I wish I could utilize this language to form the features of your face, the softness of your smile. The certain light of your eyes, or the sound of your voice saying my name. But what comes so easily to mind does not translate to the tip of this pen.

Yes. I wish I could write you out.

I wish I could place you in a perfect plot. A world of crisp bluebottle afternoons, where the walls are papered with poetry and the sidewalks exude subtle musical scores with every step. A world in which the wind whispers and caresses your ears while you lay on the lawn, looking up at the moon, and wondering if there’s someone up there doing the same thing, looking down on you.

I wish this diction could describe the sound of your breathing, or the beat of your heart, or the crystal quality of your laughter.

And how I wish I could use these words to wring everything you are out onto a blank white sheet, so that I may keep it, and read it, and remember.