My first night alone again I decide I will write.
A letter for every day that we have been gone from one another,
a poem for each moment that lasts longer without you here. You will own every word that places itself on the page before me and somehow, among the lines and empty pages, you and I become we again.
My depression does not wedge herself between our elbows
resting on the sides of one another, holding on for dear life as though the oil on my eyelids would not even exist without you here to support it. We would lay beneath pine needle trees on the forest floor and both of us would be truly there, fully emerged in the being of our own bones. 
I try to decide if I should keep them and deliver them to you all at once,
or if you would write back if I sent each of them one by one,
in a timely manner.  What would you say? Would your letters be
as short as the syllables you spoke to me when I love you became my answer to every question you asked? Or would you, at last, open your mouth to me?
Science has proven that we are all born knowing how to swim,
it is the fear that stops us. I tell myself that is what kept love from growing where we pretended the sun shone. How naive the night makes us.