A sort of love poem.

Hey my sweet onion girl, my white winter fox, my sharp dressed, sharp tongue, sharp wit friend.
I miss you, miss you, miss you from this place in my chest that remembers how you carried me home all those years ago.
From the place where I ran barefoot out in to the rain to you.
I know we talked recently, almost sober, almost close.
Like your hand reaching out over the broken line on the phone,
and I told you how I loved you with my sweet sugar spun heart when I was fifteen and we were easy as breathing.
But I woke up this morning and I think I was home with you for just a second before I opened my eyes,
like the morning smelled of paint and ink and your sleeping shape.
Back when summers were spent with me curled up against you, nose in ear, weird growling dreams.
And then you disappeared.
I think you were my scribe and I was the story trying to tell itself,
I’m the head in the clouds and you’re leather-bound, fingers dug into earth, feet planted on a ship.
Come find me in this red bricked world, there are foxes here but they don’t howl as you do, there are men here with honeyed skin, sticky enough that it might make you linger.
Ah, I am selfish, I can’t keep you, I can’t keep you.
Cherry mouthed teenager or freckly cheeked adult alike, you belong with cobble stones and I belong with bricks.
But I believe in loves that has nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with your laughter, glasses of whiskey, and how even after years when I fly to greet the mountains, you smell like home.