An open letter to no one.

Because this prose is for no one and I don't know you, I'll turn it into an advert: a letter of recommendation from the stars. I'm glowing. I have hands and feet that I mistrust and a heart that could even make the doctor's blush. I'll write my promises onto the sun and even after they've been burnt away, I'll keep them. I want to know you. I've jumped to the front of the queue and I will do anything to keep your eyes fixed on mine. I work with impossibility. I will take you to the top of the Ferris wheel to serenade you with poor attempts at concealing fear, I'll tell you horror stories of people stubbing their toes on low-lying objects. I'll teach bruises what colour means. Your irises are stunning. You could teach the sky what passion feels like and it would still take it a million years to reach that shade. I will grind my bones as I pause the planets in line: gather 'round, this is how it feels when time stands still. I broke my watch in the harbour the night I first dreamt of you, swimming through the sea on a half-eaten body board. You made even the sharks blush.

I'm sure I've met you before. You were the boy reading my favourite book at the back of the bus that I wanted to sit next to. The conversation I never started. The missed connection, standing atop the harbour bridge with the birds soaring around you. You are the blue mosquito lights, buzzing each time I reach out to you. Yours were the first footsteps, walking through a sea of glass bottles, each surface reflecting the sun. I fell in love with your hands.

I am the woman on the moon. You are the letter I sent to myself and put extra stamps on it so I knew it would find me wherever I was. You are the notes I leave myself next to the best passages, the crack in my tardis mug, the second just before I stepped on the picture hook, burying it in my heel. You were the exit sign that fell on my head in 2006. The stranger that caught me looking too long at you. Your ankles are splendid.

If by chance you read this, meet me underneath the sprawling tree. I'll bring fireworks. You bring the music. I'll pick your name from a hat and call it magic. I am the master magician and I'd cut me in half to stand before you again. You're what summer feels like. At forty one degrees, my mouth stayed shut, and you- still a stranger, taught me what it's like to regret.

I'll fold time in half, back to that afternoon and I'll steal those tomatoes. You bit into one and the seeds came spilling out. I've never met such beautiful teeth before. I’ll eat the whole of Italy to meet them again.

In order to win you over, I'll break the seasons apart and pull out only the perfect days for you: the thunderstorms; the ones where every possible thing goes so wrong that it becomes funny; the late nights in funny costumes and back alleys; the days that fall in by chance. The sort of chance that feels lucky for every single second and makes you wonder if it's really real. You're not real. I'll bet your bones are stunning.

If you read this, I will have not existed. I am a madwoman with grand ideas and I would teach you how to fly if you didn't already seem like the sort of person that knows how. The birds got their lessons from you, and I put them to flight. I am terrible at self-promotion. Come meet me by the unplanned location. I'll be sure not to forget you.