Dear old lover,
old friend
old man-of-my-dreams,

It's late at night, although not late enough for it to be considered the saddening hour. I've missed you recently. Why? I couldn't tell you. It's probably something in the weather, in the moon, telling me "it's time for you to begin the missing again." Why you? Even more of a mystery.

We're talking again. "Talking." Sending messages as the strangest of strangers, as people who sort of still know all the secrets, who still sort of talk like maybe nothing has changed. Except now I construct my responses with the delicate intention of keeping my brick walls built around the space in my past dedicated to you.

I hope you're well. In the sense that maybe you still think of me every once in a while. In the sense that maybe you're forgetting how much you used to love me.

Sincerely,
Claire
*(past mistake)