Letter To My Young Lover

If this letter should ever reach you, I'll be surprised. It reveals too much. It bares my soul, and I fear that I may come out damaged. I fear that in my tiredness (due to lack of sleep) I may speak too much. What bond we share from that early age, has only strengthened. And if it has not strengthened (for that is my perception only) it might have changed for the better. We find ourselves more than friends; we find out bodies drawn together (like bears to honey) and our hearts beat with more than simple fondness. Dare I utter that word? The word of which men flee and I thought to scorn at such a young age? May it be... love? It makes sense in my eyes that I would love my oldest remaining childhood friend. Mature now, in mind and body; with no more chubby cheeks and now sporting stubble that I crave to feel upon my softer skin. What men I have met (seems to be singular) who devote their lives to protect that which they leave behind. Eighteen and ready for arms. I dread the thought of your departure, but more so your return clad in oak and velvet. But I hold on tight, to that single thought that identifies you as my match: the children that would welcome their daddy home at the end of each day. I would have your children. I would bear your babies. Perhaps three or four with my eyes and your hair. I wait for that day, when our souls shall intertwine and fill each other, and in my verdant womb, love shall nourish our family. Perhaps we can give our son the name of his father: My true love, and the best man I have ever known. Always and Forever, --------------