Letter

Dear You, 

A good morning to you. I am wondering if you managed to sleep last night? It rained all night, and the dog kept barking. I don’t know if you heard her from where you are. Last night, I circled the apartment. I had a strange feeling there was a ghost nearby, an uncanny presence, something was too close for comfort. I lit a candle, and watched the flame as it spoke to me. My eyes closed and I leaned my head against the couch, praying for sleep to visit me. You were like the candle that burned itself for others. With a candle, you have to be careful. It doesn’t know when to stop giving light, it doesn’t know when to stop hurting itself. 

I never wanted to keep the candle. I wanted the candle to go back to its original state- light. Simple light. Light that radiates, light that gives to the world but also chooses when to give and when to stop. I wanted more for you. I saw you as the Sun and Moon, and us as the stars. You saw us as just a flame that burnt out. Everything diminishes, everything ends. 

I doubt there is an ending, when there was no beginning. I doubt there is an anti-climax, when there was no climax. 

Last night, in my dream, I saw the boat. The boat that has only one of us in it. I don’t remember when, but you jumped off the boat. You thought it was safer to swim, my boat was too small, too unstable, too risky. 

As I had coffee with a friend today, I saw tons of boats. And I smiled to myself, thinking of the time I asked “anyone ever bought you a boat before?” And if I didn’t ask, I am asking now. 

Yours, 

My Fragmented Self.