The first five letters I wrote to you were written at the beginning of the first year we were together. Then, I took a short break from writing. Or so you’d think, given that between January 17th and April 25th, I wouldn’t send you another. But I didn’t stop, of course, I simply didn’t send anything I wrote. There were many reasons for this, chief among them being a crippling self-doubt. Seeing as how I find myself, now, in a state which prohibits the giving of such shits, I would like to make amends for this terrible mistake.

If you’ll allow me the honor, please be welcomed to Letter 4.1, where I’d like to begin making up for lost written sentiment.

Soon after we began spending every night together, we needed a place to do this, as Bonnie and Clyde were to be taking over the master bedroom in which we’d been squatting. We would set up our things in the bedroom just a few feet down the hall, and to the left, coming from the master. Before this time, the rooms I’d occupied were shared with younger siblings, a wife who insisted on hiring a professional decorator so as to simulate correctly the inside of a model home, my own children, and musical instruments. The Blue Room would be ours for less than a year, but in that time, it became the first room I felt truly belonged to me.

It was so named for its color coordination, and I often fell asleep wondering what other reasons for the title we might have. The blues was… somewhat important to us, I suppose. But enough to name our room after it? Being Clyde’s favorite color, was it an ode to the tenderness we felt for him, our assumed villain? Blue Valentine.

The piece of yourself with the same name, Blue. Somewhere within myself, I knew you idealized her for one reason, or another. The fluid way she spoke, perhaps the look in her eyes only seemed to reflect all she had seen fall through the cracks of her life. Where she could not find righteous serenity, the stormy insistence of a girl, who would become Dismember, boiled low. You loved her, and you wished you could manipulate yourself to be her whenever you wished. When it would elevate inside you a set of understandings needed for the moment.

But I would come to find out you idealized all your facets, none of them being a destination, as it were. Except, of course, for Evelyn.

Evelyn was once a facet of yours, a part of yourself I, now, believe to be simply the whole you. How often our conversations seemed to switch to a form of doublespeak, when we spoke that name within that context. The coy smile, when your innocence would shine through enough to let you genuinely mean it. Your tail wagging, predatorily, before you might pounce. The elegant hands you’d use, to water the garden of all hearts which might come under your care.

How I tried to step nearer you, when the name made you shy, as if from the memory of the Great Mistake which lead you astray from Becoming her. And it was one night in early March that it would happen first.

The Blue Room was painted an oyster blue, the double bed with a modest iron and wood frame. The victrola lacquered lazuli, a color not far off from the sheets, nor the 17th century middle-eastern prayer rug forever sliding under my shoes as I came in at night.

Always before you, I’d position my brown chair, the ugly chair, to the plain view of the window. I loved looking out of our window at the mood as I read, the lamplight also much more accessible. Moonrise was prompt as usual; 7:48pm, and it would set at 8:02am. Cinematic and persistent, in the unsure dark of the room we put together, the moon shown as blue as the rest of our belongings. I’d fallen asleep, half-heartedly undressed, and I think I began dreaming that you…

Well, you walked right up and scratched the moon right off with a fingernail like a store window painting of a snowman, in order that there be no more moon.

"Eve? Is that you? Where've you been?"

We were new lovers with an antediluvian sense of the other, a bloodborne connection.achieved first when I saw yours spilled too early. You didn’t mean to wake me, no, but you’d meant to disturb me. As I moved myself to invite you, I was reminded of the the spat we’d engaged in during the day. Afraid as I was to feel a cold flow of air go between us, a flummox found me unable to find the comfort fast enough to bring you into my arms.

I felt… sick.

Somewhere within our, seemingly inane conversation, I sensed your Evelyn. Then, to you, she was the girl you could have been. Waving like the ripples on water, from a rock I’d skipped without a thought, there she was. I couldn’t tell you how I knew she was there, I couldn’t have known it intellectually. I could not tell you how I knew you were the one who...

In any amount of time, you could be gone. Our first month of effectively living together, I thought of every manner of exits you could make, and it made me sick. I heard your voice as you dealt me pleasantries, this night, and I took in the sound of you, losing your meaning almost totally. I tried to tell you… well, I suppose every time I opened my oafish mouth, at this point in our relationship,  the goal was the same. I tried to tell you that I needed you, not to leave, that I knew your Evelyn, and not to give her up.

"I don't want to. I want to be up with you," I said. “I like being bothered by you, Fox.”

I was so ignorant. You found me endearing, for which I cannot possibly express the immensity of my gratitude, but I hadn’t the first clue as to the fight in which you were tangled with yourself. From the moment we met, to this night, you’d shown me more attention than anyone had, and you’d failed to see my pain as a dark well of unimaginable angst. You couldn’t see what kindness and shelter you brought to me, small as they must have looked from the outside. You couldn’t have possibly known. And I couldn’t have possibly told you.

I like being bothered? Honestly, Evelyn, what more could I say?

But then, you said it for me. What I wanted to make known first, as some kind of root for everything I would try to tell you later.

"I just need you," you said.

And I was bathed in relief.

"I need you, Evie," I returned. "We belong together."

As sleep returned to me, the tribute ceased to be enough. I dreamed of helping you into your sundress, and as clumsy as I am, falling out of the understanding whether I was taking the damn thing off, or putting it on. Eve, I know you keep spools of fragile secrets, those which the likes of my fumbling hands should never be trusted, I thought, but if we could solidify a bond with our words… Nay, if we could vow so solemnly here, half naked, in the moonlight, that we cannot bear life without the other, it will surely buy me enough time to learn what I must, so that I may know your true burdens with a mind for your sanctuary.

As you sidled up from behind me, and your body caressed mine, I became certain the answer was in the way a knot is tied. And with the fibrous slippage of time, doubt, and dexterity, I knew I needed to marry you.

I let your name out of my mouth again, suddenly awake, and demanded softly, "Face me and tell me you need me again."

You revolved in my arms, and fulfilled my request, lovingly, your voice raising to the high pitch of all your assurances.

"I need you."

And then we practiced our vows, and I watched you become one person, from nine, as I came inside you. The fools we are, these children we were, I marvel at the way we made love without answers, armed sometimes with the wrong ones, and yet so willing to lay down the foundation of this, the house we were building together.