Dear Wigleaf,

I climbed out of my dreams to write this place for you, where winter is strong enough to kill roaches but not solitude. You can hear when the ice freezes and melts along this midwestern house. All around there are bars and restaurants and drunk college students who knock on your door because they've forgotten where they live and want someone to remember for them. Meanwhile I stay in the house to forget the world and only leave when I want to forget myself. When I'm lonely, I remember the gypsy tattoo on a friend's back and how it dances when she laughs. When I'm lonely, I remember the midnight phone call of a friend doing a drunken split at a party, hoping her crush heard his name against her aching thighs. When I am lonely, I pass by the frozen yogurt place where I shared a tub of chocolate toppings and grab-ass with a man I took seriously for a moment. Where are the prayers? You didn't ask, but they're stored in the mornings when grace and hope sit in their highest seats. Many days hold words instead of people, then there are days of people, and days of neither. I have a thing for golden eyes or blue ones as a backup, because they hold sunsets and oceans and other beautiful bodies that don't leave. I'll leave this last sentence open for you to reach out, hold my hand, and tell me your name.

Sincerely,

Jeneé