dear john

And in your hand you hold the pieces, but I have given them to you piecemeal. You held them–all of them–for a time, but I regained while you were staring into the dark, lost in another direction.

You will crumble them, the pieces, until you are ready to put the puzzle of us together again.

You will try again and again in the dark. In the light you will feign ignorance and you will make them hate me. You will pretend to hate me.

You won’t.

I have left you incomplete. Mid-sentence.

You are missing the rest of me. You will feel this. You will wonder, ponder often, “what was there, before?”

From your memory you will imagine my words. What single distinct elements of speech might have been at the beginning of us. The beginning of this letter. I will not give them to you. 

Mourn me, as I will not mourn you. 

I will not come this way again. 

 

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