it's late, and i must admit that i'm a bit drunk, so i apologize for this letter in advance.
the moon is getting yellow, again. i don't know if you remember, but the fall is my favourite season. the harvest moon in october, full and orange and huge on the horizon, is my most inwardly celebrated yearly occassion. i'm anticipating it early this year - it's only july.
i was smoking on the back porch, contemplating the macabre - my own mortality, how many more harvest moons i can realisitically anticipate experiencing, all of the mistakes i've made in my lifetime, and those few things i've done right - and i find myself thinking about the way you make love. the way that we make love, rather; no sense in giving you all the credit. the last time we were together was amazing. i had forgotten what it was to feel you inside of me - the way you move, the way you clutch me, the way your sweat feels, the sounds of your exertion. just remembering, just the idea of running my hands over you, pulling your body against mine, makes my entire body flush.
i'm not fit to date, at the moment. one day out of every four i'm not fit to do anything but lie in bed and listen to the sounds of life come in through the window. but i'm not fit to be alone all the time, either. i'm not trying to play into your pity, and i don't want you to think that i would. what i'm trying to say is that i've been contemplating if i can ever realistically expect to again feel you lying beside me, your hot breath on my neck, the taste of your flesh, or your arms around me.
i miss you terribly. and i suppose the real point behind this letter is that i enjoy your company. though a relationship with me may be futile (we've been down that road before, and the road has started to bend downhill), i do enjoy you. i miss you. and if you find the time, out of boredom or lack of anything better to do, perhaps we can see each other.
and now it's back to the porch and contemplating the moon, for me. perhaps i'll fall asleep under the stars, perhaps i'll have another glass of wine, perhaps i'll write some wretchedly melancholic poetry, and perhaps this letter was a mistake. but as the stars forgive the vegas lights, as the grape forgives the winery (with time), as the paper forgives the pen, perhaps the reader of this bad prose will forgive the author. and then, perhaps he'll find nothing to forgive.