Dear Sylvi,

Walking through the front door, I still kick off my shoes to the corner where they sit, now by cobwebs. I prepare a smaller meal in the kitchen in silence—no more dancing or wine or sweet old radio songs. I rarely make the bed, and it's such a chore to clean the bedside table.

The walls have become a shrine to time stood still, to once-shared laughter and the anxious anticipation of a kiss or your hand sliding down my wrist to hold mine. The floor is still worn, and now bits of dust and things like pocket change seem to accumulate daily. No more long dress filled by you following me around to pick up the things I lose. I do feel loss; I do.

I wasn't sure I could ever love again when you left in that October chill, leaves beginning to cover our lawn. I feel as though I, too, am covered. As if you're still here, I wait late into the evenings. I'm still consuming too much caffeine, and yes, sweetheart, I'm still drinking that extra glass of wine that you would oppose and then quickly share with me, reminding me what a good idea it really was.

I loved you when your skin glimmered pale white and your eyes were blue as the sky, with lips thin as the shadows the trees cast upon our driveway. I loved you when you begged me to leave so I would adjust to your leaving. I adored you on the couch, too weak to say anything. I wept holding you as I knew you were leaving. I hid it most times, as I wanted you to be braver than me, my love, and you were.

I loved you when your hand was cold and they came to take you away. I sat there imagining where you were now, what your last thought might have been. There is no more electricity in your body, but there is in mine. I will love you until my energy has transferred to another place, and then I will love you again.

Head swelling, heart pumping, heart pumping just enough. I don't mind it. It's ok to go this way. Just hard to let them off with out a hunt. I guess when you're beat you're beat.

A cold beer sweating on a hot afternoon. I mean, it was hot, man. It wasn’t just hot; it was humid. We walked along the banks of the river that ran through everything, like how you used to run from me in fields of tall grass and flowers. We were so much younger back then. We were in love. I had the capacity to feel, and you had the patience to nurture and keep me surprised, wide-eyed. I slept last night with no dreams, finally, and my stomach only hurt mildly today. I’m calling that progress. Progressing toward what? Maybe happiness and health. Maybe death. I don’t know. I can’t tell you the things I thought back then, but I can tell you who I am now. I’ve changed just a bit, my darling. The old-fashioned words you loved being called—darling, dearest, lover, sweetie—I was your suitor. I’m still here, sweetheart. I’m still waiting. I will court you again, although I may run a little slower, my words may fumble and trail off into intruding thoughts. I may wake up soaked and shivering from dreams that come. I may not be the man I once was in your eyes.

morphine, benzo's/ Its ok.

It was cold. Outside and in it was cold! You know it would be warm where ever you brought me. I knew too. Two lost hearts walking with out holding hands. That would come later and one heart would find salvation. Cobblestone and brick the color of blood basking in our desired misery. My desired misery that you remedied one time, one night. I would give that back now if I could. It is better to be alone and loved than unwanted and discarded. It is better to be alone and loved, than unwanted and alone. Like a carrot on a stick, tease, all of it. I would give that all back to you my friend. All of it, I no longer feel my heart flutter with your name, I feel my stomach tie and growl. I do not want your life in mine. Not this way, not at all, poor thing, old love. I might live less but my soul is ok. Its a new year, I will breathe until I can not and I will sing.

phone not needed, headrest stained. Blood only known from prior story. Dead weight in the covers, dead body once or twice removed. Its cheap and its south. I feel ok here now. I'll sleep. You hold the conversation my love.

James  Joyce sleeping in bed, next to me. He snores almost as a whisper. I don't bother to shake him. I can sleep and he has been through enough the eccentric that he may be. Write. All else is meaningless. That part is somewhat fiction though. We know that from our own depraved eccentric lows and bottoms. Sleep. You will make it right in the morning. It is dark, it is time my friend.