I am writing to you today that I need to, not when I saw you the first of many times sitting on the cold January lawn.
Nor when I understood that my mind had already become your favorite place in the world, where you have fun and sing, read your poetry books quietly, take pictures and invent words.
I am writing to you on a Sunday afternoon, when no one receives letters, because I know that you will not get to know this.
I write to you if the five o'clock light and my mood to shout everything at you meet again like old friends.
On working days I am what I am supposed to be, I am barely aware of time and if I look for you with my eyes, it is to stop it. That's my daily dose of you, silently bumping into you, without managing to smile at least.
On clumsy days I must endure the constant noise my ideas make because they don't get along with each other. I wish you were near to make them live in the peace you give me.
I wish there was a word that summed it all up, but until they invent it I'll have to settle for our first hello.
Photography by Patrick Liebach