Letters from the Cabin

Five days I learned the shape of you. Hunger came the third night. I sat with my hands flat on my knees and did not go to your door. You left bread by my chair each evening and watched me lie about it. Your eyes never accused me, only waited.

On the fifth night you sat on the floor at my feet. You rolled up your sleeve: I knew what you were when I found you. I patched you up anyway. I am not asking you to ask.

Your wrist, turned up like a page. I took it in both hands, careful as glass. Your pulse was loud. It is still the loudest thing I have ever heard.

I will not write what it tasted like. But your other hand found my hair and stayed, and I understood I was not taking from you. Someone had decided before I had that I was worth the risk.

Your wrist was closing by morning. I waited for shame. It did not come. Worse and better: the shape of the rest of my life, clear as frost. Every few nights, your wrist. Every day, your patience. And one question I cannot answer: whether I love you because I drink from you, or drink from you because I love you.

I only know I would rather starve, and you would rather I lived. That is the arithmetic. I have been keeping it ever since.

— L.

Letters from the Cabin, No. 3. If you have words you cannot send to someone, tell me who they are and what the thing is. First lines are free: [email protected]