Dear K-
Days drift in and out and still not a single breath from you. I imagine you are busy and happy, because I like to think of you that way. I see you in an eternal loop in which you chuckle, eyes sparkling behind thick black eyeglass frames, mustache twitching over a lip curled into a grin. In your hand is a glass of whiskey, a rich amber color and sloshing thick like syrup, leaving sticky wet veins running down the edges of your glass. You’ve finished your novel. You’ve finished a marathon. You’ve finished your latest project at work and have been promoted on to the next level of task completion. In my mind you are feeling content to sit outside at night and smoke a cigarette, your voice lingering beneath the stars as you discuss music, as you discuss philosophy, as you discuss absolutely nothing at all. You’re just happy to be there and happy to be alive.
Since I am not provided with an alternative, this is how I chose to see you now in your lull of correspondence. It would explain your silence- if you are feeling up and productive than you have no use of me, your outlet for loneliness. It is a more pleasant thought than to think you’ve forgotten about me completely, or worse- that you’ve sunk into such depths of despair that not even my fragile words can reach you.
Hope all is well,
-K
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