Mar 2014
Dear _,
It's been hard to write. You were always the muse.
I'm no longer Anonymous. Anonymous is no longer mine.
Once, he smashed my lamp. I heard the sparkle of cheap IKEA glass fanning out on my floor like a miniature Arctic Ocean. When I came back to my room, he had a broom in one hand and your mug in the other.
I told him he could break anything in my life, but not that mug.
I am bound, my dear _ . Not because I wish I could tell you how much _. Not because I , or that I miss when we __ , but by sterility, latex gloves, telegrams. I am bound by the distance and detachment that keeps us safe as we venture inside other humans, other hearts.
The only way to survive terminal love was to induce a coma. Sleep until fixed.
At best I will dream of your laugh.
It's been hard to write. You were always the muse.
I'm no longer Anonymous. Anonymous is no longer mine.
Once, he smashed my lamp. I heard the sparkle of cheap IKEA glass fanning out on my floor like a miniature Arctic Ocean. When I came back to my room, he had a broom in one hand and your mug in the other.
I told him he could break anything in my life, but not that mug.
I am bound, my dear _ . Not because I wish I could tell you how much _. Not because I , or that I miss when we __ , but by sterility, latex gloves, telegrams. I am bound by the distance and detachment that keeps us safe as we venture inside other humans, other hearts.
The only way to survive terminal love was to induce a coma. Sleep until fixed.
At best I will dream of your laugh.
Above all, just missing your friendship right now.
