the letter

He said to burn it.

It might be more cathartic that way.

And I'm considering it.

But not quite yet.

Right now I'm re-reading the fifteen pages I've written.

Well, to be fair, almost fifty percent of it is excerpts of things we've already said...


Letters we have written.

Poems we have shared.

Art.

But the entire thing was art.

The jump.

It was beautiful.

And dangerous.

Self-destructive.

And elusive.

Would things change if you read it?

No. And I don't want them to.

All that lies in that letter is the hope of some abstracted reconciliation.

A future that has yet to come, having a chance.

Because right now.

Without you knowing the truth.

Even that abstraction is impossible.



And I need to let that go.

So maybe I will burn it.

Because as I watch the edges ignite, I can revel in that devastation, and I can look at the nows and smile.

But not quite yet.