Dear Darling,

Sometimes at night, when I can’t sleep, and I feel so small and alone in my bed, and in the world, I rearrange my pillows into a line that runs down the right side of the bed (because the left side is mine, of course). And I wrap my arms around those pillows and I drape my leg over top of them, and bury my face into them. And I pretend that instead of cold pillows, that it’s your warm body, and that the crook of your elbow fits perfectly under me as I sink into your chest and listen to your heartbeat and trace that spot on your neck with my fingers–that soft spot, you know, the one I love–just below your ear and right above your shoulder. And I watch your chest rise and fall until slowly, my own breath falls into rhythm, and I fall asleep all tangled up in you.

But tonight dear, the pillow trick isn’t working. Too many sad things lunging at me from the shadowy corners of my mind. Too many masticated belief systems snaking their way out from the depths to which I’ve relegated them. So many of them tied to you my love, and your absence.

Please don’t let them be true.

And please … please don’t let my fate be a lifetime of sleepless nights tangled up in pillows.

xo,

sleepy me

Dear Darling,

I bought my own damn chocolate today thankyouverymuch. You’re welcome.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Me

Dear Darling,

I’m the one. You know … the one.

I’m the one sitting on the park bench with a book in one hand and a steamed hazelnut milk in the other, totally oblivious to any other world than the one inside the fluttering pages.

I’m the one who devours cold take-out–Chinese, pizza, pasta, you name it–for breakfast the next morning and loves it. It’s practically the best thing about ordering in.

I’m the one who rolls down the car window during a rainstorm to stick my head out and feel the water on my face and smell the air.

I’m the one who hosts dance parties–for myself–in the bedroom, the kitchen, the hallway …

I’m the one who uses punctuation when texting and refuses to use annoying acronyms and/or abbreviations like CU L8R, and I’m also the one who finds it disheartening when others do.

I’m the one who color codes the clothes in her closet and alphabetizes her CDs–after they’re categorized by genre, of course. (And I’m the one who still owns all her CDs, and even a few cassette tapes, because I’m also the one who can’t seem to let go of tangible history.)

I’m the one whose favorite punctuation mark is the ellipsis.

I’m the one who has actually spent a significant amount of time thinking about which punctuation mark deserves the title of “favorite.”

I’m the one who feels passionate about language and ideas and people and finds nothing more rewarding than an honest, sincere, thought-filled conversation.

I’m the one who loves to throw parties. And a good party, I throw.

Although, I am also the one who finds herself feeling a little out of place at other people’s parties–perhaps it’s because I’m not in charge.

But regardless of who does the hostessing, I’m the one who requires a bit of downtime after said party to quietly retreat inward in order to process, regroup and recharge. An extroverted introvert, I am.

I’m the one who collects dishes and office supplies and globes and stationary, and I’m the one who owns a significant number of high heels that have never been worn.

I’m the one who subscribes to the idea of “play before work,” no matter how hard I try to swap it. And I blame this on my mother. She is the funnest, after all.

I’m the one who forgets that a load of laundry has been sitting in the washing machine for days, that I signed up for the neighborhood blood drive, or that I have a television appearance one morning, but–I will always remember your birthday, your big work meeting day, and every detail of our first kiss. (And even though I might forget about that TV appearance, I’m the one who will still make it to the station in time, looking great, ready to rock my segment.)

I’m the one who grows impatient with incompetence and with people who can’t make up their mind.

I’m the one who plucks her eyebrows daily.

I’m the one who thinks.

I’m the one who daydreams of love letters and hand-held walks and starry nights and porch swings and old-fashioned romance.

I’m the one who is quite simple, really.

And I’m the one who is quite complex.

But I’m the one who loves easily. And freely. And big-ly.

And I’m the one who’s waiting.

Not-so-patiently sometimes.

But waiting, none the less.

For you.

Love,

me

p.s. I’m also the one who thought you could use this list as it seems you might be having some difficulty finding me in the sea.

Dearest Darling,

I’m writing you tonight from my little corner in my little room in my parents’ house on Hilton Head. I’m home for the summer, you know, helping daddy with the boats. I’ve got a killer tan, have become a vegetarian, and have taken up reading like it’s an Olympic sport. Mostly because that’s all one can do when one is on a dock with no internet for hours on end. So this is what I did before computers, I think to myself. And I’m so enjoying it. Right now I’m in the middle of the Old Testament and a biography of Margaret Mitchell. She wrote Gone With the Wind, you know. But this book is all about her and her husband John Marsh and the real love story behind her epic novel. And though I’m only a few chapters into the book, I am quite certain that had she not had John, she never would have written her novel. It’s true! And I can’t help but wonder what fantastic things I’ll do someday because I have you. And vice versa.

Well, my dearest–though I could go on and on about John and Peggy (that’s what he called her), I’m actually writing to tell you about my day. Namely, what I did tonight after work. That is—I tore up the linoleum in my mother’s kitchen. Yes, I sat there on my hands and knees with a chisel and hammer in hand, banging away at the floor, till the cement was bare. And tomorrow? I’m tiling it.

And I’m writing to tell you—that’s the kind of woman I am.

I’m the kind of woman who can pull up an entire floor and haul it away to the dump in her mid-sized SUV. I’m the kind of woman who goes to the Home Depot and picks out her tile and loads her cart with grout mix and mortar so that she can tile her kitchen floor. I’m the kind of woman who gets paint under her fingernails and knows how to use a drill.

But my darling, I’m also writing to tell you that while that is the kind of woman I am—the one who can, and will, if needed—you must know that I never want to do it again.

Capiche?

xo,

me

If ever there were a song I wish I’d written.

All my love,

me

Dear Darling,

We were window shopping and people watching. Music from the street performers mixed with the hum of people headed this way and that, wrapped up in the dry summer heat made it the kind of night I could float away in. We stopped at the splash pad and laughed as the kids ran and jumped in the fountain-the shock of random water spurts sending them into fits of giggles. I couldn’t stop smiling. After a few minutes I looked up and said, “You wanna? … Let’s run across it. I’ll race you.” But no amount of coercion, coyness, or eyelash batting would get him to budge.

And I knew. He wasn’t you.

Because with you? I’ll splash in fountains (even when I’m fully dressed), run through rain, dive into oceans, climb up mountains, jump off cliffs, dance on street corners, sleep under the stars, and wander wherever our fancies take us.

You and me.

Missing you,

me

p.s. I’m only like 7.2% serious about the cliff jumping.