Fill in the blanks.

Dear _____________,

I'm writing this for you, just like I write everything for you: the blogs, the poems, the notes, the scribbles. Even the doodles in the margins of my notebooks, they're for you. You are a hundred crumpled scraps of paper, the folded corner of The Times, smudged ink on the inside of my palm. I've been searching for you for a long time and in that time, I've had a lot to say. And no one to say it to. So I write. Novellas, short stories, poetry and prose. I fill my notebooks with you in the hopes that one day you'll come and fill in all the blanks.

With love,

__________________

West Coast

We fall in love on the West Coast

to the sound of waves and rocky shore lines.

Hang our hearts from the branches of giant cedar trees

just to feel the wind coming

in off of the ocean.

Lay back and rest against abandonded driftwood

as you trace the outline of the coast

across my waist. I can taste the Pacific

when I kiss you, salt and sand,

an infinite expanse of blue.

At night, when the sun sets

and the stars come out, you tell me that you can see

Andromeda reflected in my eyes, my shoulders,

the milky way.

We sleep to the sound of heavy rain drops

against our tent, sleeping bags zipped

together for warmth.