Dear

I love you. And love isn't love without mess.

Remember that night when the clouds wept on us? While we slept, they wept on our wooden steps, our rubber boots, and the volvo we drove to California last spring.

It was so cold. Our sheets were so scrachy, covered in lint. And you refused to turn on the heat. Sitting in our volvo, heat blasting; you, still in bed, cold toes and a runny nose. I prepared to drive through the snow on a kleenex conquest.

How sweet you looked. I knew you'd wake soon and see what the clouds had left us, I bet you smiled, exhaled slightly through your nose.

My rubber boots kept squeaking at me and I drove so slow I actually noticed our neighbors.

I wonder if they know, if they've noticed us.

I came home for you. Can of soup and box full of tissues from the Bartells.

I ate alone and used the whole box that night.

Love isn't love without mess, and I haven't cleaned our room since you left.