your romantic letter from you to me back to you with the love i can give the both us: ro·mance p. (r -m ns) n. A love affair. Ardent emotional attachment or involvement between people; love: They kept the romance alive in their marriage for 35 years. A strong, sometimes short-lived attachment, fascination, or enthusiasm for something: a childhood romance with the sea. A mysterious or fascinating quality or appeal, as of something adventurous, heroic, or strangely beautiful in honor of valentines day, one of the days most hated between us. it’s the day behind the beatings and the fights and the swearing and the way we bled on those hopeless nights, the days that we forgot to sigh at the insanity that is our lives. each separate, but, but, but no one is supposed to know. in honor of the day that i tried to keep you a secret but failed, leaving pieces of wood under my fingernails and a piece of my heart on a floating deckchair, the one that i’m never going to see again. and the soundtrack that i’d love to drink champagne to is louis armstrong and his trumpet. the way that i can imagine you, thick, with blues and jazz and everything that swirls in your pink bubbley—give me what you have longed to give—your jackets and your leather and the wholeness in which i could bathe myself in, but just missing suffocation. i don’t think we’ll grow so far uphill as we would down, swooning in this fairytale type of dream, where i’ve let my hair tangle and christmas lights fill the hall. and an airy mesh. mesh. mesh. mesh over my heart as you bangage up your wounds, of course of course they are only from a dream but who is there to actually prove this but ourselves and even the guarantee is a tiny bit faulty. but only just a tiny bit. and if I could say that i want to dance with you in my arms, and if i could shoot the moon, filling this room up with scents that i once knew, that’s how i remember things, from smell, i would, and i could, and i think i should keep myself warm but it’s only valentines day. and i can’t scream so loud on this day, in a dimmed, peach room, and i cant smile so wide with you unable to speak and thinking such bad bad bad things that are true, of course. But i can’t change your heart on me. i can change the heart on your sleeve but not inside of you. behind the bars and the cotton and the swan-songs and the guilty pleasures, i could kiss you in a dream. the way you really wanted. like crayon wax under my nails