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Stacks of unopened mail, mostly from large, impersonal corrospondants, are a symptom of my existance. One sending money, another informing me of money sent by another department, a third reminding me of money I am to send, a fourth reminding me of money being held on my behalf. I'm sure you notice a theme. To me it is so much noise; I do not require such notices nor do I expect what I require has much to do at all with the sending.



Somehow shuffled in to this disshevelled stack there was a valentine. The very thought of such a thing is preposterous, but there it lay. A card and letter from a person long, and quite deliberately, ignored.



No, no past lover or anything of that sort. She is family. That clan on which I turned my back in ages past, exhausted by the endless... I can hardly recall.



I have never read such loneliness, seeping in salty globes from between handwritten lines. I have never traced such meandering, no, grasping... emptiness.





I will make no phone call, speak no false pleasantries, paint no boyish grin across my face. I owe nothing here. But it does not please me.

COMMENTS

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Joli
00:03 Nov 08 2024

One day, perhaps even long from now, but one day... Talk to me about this. I wish that I had asked more of how you were. I'm asking now

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