I wonder if whether one day I’ll be too tired to write again, or if my words won’t come to me like they do now. Don’t you have days like that sometimes, even right now? My voice sticks in my throat and my pencils break under the pressure of having to produce something worthwhile - something that I will look back on and remember the moment that I wrote it with astute clarity.
And I wonder whether one day I’ll wake up and find that you’re too far for me to get next to and your touch is unfamiliar and my name on your mouth is awkward because things have rearranged themselves and people grow apart.
There is too much to say, and there is nothing to say except that I miss you and I’m so terribly sorry, and all of the silly things I used to laugh into your skin, every word was true as anything, and your eyes are still beautiful, aren’t they? And I am sorry.
One day you may hopefully find it in yourself to forgive me for what I’ve done.
I hope you are happy, wherever you may be.