I have been to Phoenix and Denver and today I am in Hartford, where the ciy folds around the blocks like a cloak worn too tightly for spring. There are no flowers here, only thunder and lightening and this hotel room with 20 foot ceilings that hover above my desk in a way that makes me feel small.
You have gone to work. You said so. I am going to bed. I will wake up and you will be sleeping, dreaming of green bowls filled with strawberries cut in half, wide open and slippery.
I am too tired to say anything worth reading. They took it all today, and more. I miss my friends, but I do not want to fly across the country again this week. I want to be home. I want to hear your knock on the door, and to know you will come in, key in hand, ready for tea. You choose this time, all right? As long as it's hot, I'll drink it. You know that.
Will you forgive me for not writing for so long? I have been lost and I am trying to find my way back. To you, to the pen, to the silence that best described the way I long for you.