Mysteries of Ink and Paper in Times New Roman

Dear K,

We just can't stop breaking our own hearts, can we?

I've read the letter twenty times or more and every day it changes. Some days it is for you and on other days it was written for someone else.

I'll send it to you anyway, fuck it.

I'm just so hesitant because it is very true, and while I'm honest, I'm not very good at telling the truth. I'll admit to everything, but not all the time.

It's just so much distance, and so much space, and... I don't know what to do all the time. Its like I'm in a giant empty room, with puddles on the floor, and no visitors for days and days, and it's just me to write on the walls and walls and walls.

I've got nobody to bounce off of, nobody to talk to, and I smile at the night watch men and call my parents back at night, and say that I'm doing great and that I'm up for a promotion soon, and yeah I'm glad this is where I'm at, and sometimes I am, but... there's that space....

AND then there's you. I thought I had you to myself. We were prison inmates trapped together in solitary passing notes between the bars, but then...

I don't know where this is going anyway.

I'll send the letter. Maybe it will get to the right person, but I think the wrong person wrote it.

Who knows, the postal system is tricky these days.

You've never disappointed me,

K