Soon you will turn into a memory no longer longed for. Soon your phone numbers will out-lease my mind. Soon your face will blur, flushed down the path of historic artistry. And soon, I will be freer than you once claimed you had to be. Soon these letter-snippets, these pocketed dreams, will follow no further in your traces. Soon I will speak of you like a normal human being not a flirty flit not a raging sally Soon scents now foreign won’t bother my senses. Soon names and places will hold no weight heavier than I hoarded. I will be greener than the grass off rainy terrains, more animalistic than the wilderness of forest past water currents. And—more so late— I might actually begin to love living it, just as soon as you begin to see the sun, while I stop falling for the moon, and the lightning, and you.