Dear Sarah
I don’t know what to say anymore.
Dear Sarah,
I know this letter is out of the blue. To you, I was probably just lost in a sea of faces when you walked into the room, dropped your white robe, and shifted poses every fifteen minutes during that two-hour life drawing class. I learned every curve and shadow of you without being able to reach out and mold my touch to the shape of you.
I could feel the burn high in my cheeks every time you moved, the sunlight through the windows dappling across different facets of your body. I’d get lost in you and wonder what it would be like if we were in the studio alone, just the two of us, with your dark eyes meeting mine as the trace of a smile graced your maroon-tinted lips. There were days I barely sketched anything out because I was so caught up in what it would be like to drag my mouth across every subtle hill and valley of that form I was getting to know so well.
Eventually, I was taking you home with me — into the shower, into bed, into sleepless nights where I tossed and turned as a fever overcame me. It was like being ill. It was like being awash in the glow of inspiration. It was madness, yet a part of me never wanted it to stop.
And I would imagine other things beyond what I could do to that body of yours: I pictured weekends, holding your hand as we…
