A letter, not sent.
The day you left, you didn’t really leave. I know this because the waves still come and go, recycling each other over and over again. And since you left it has rained almost every day, a greatness that lifts itself up for long moments and short ones; it rests in the interim of a great cleansing and sometimes gives us rainbows of warmth. We see ourselves peeking out from behind our curtains at the falling rain, looking at the coldness clinging to our windows, looking at each other for a second before turning away again to a warmth that comes from within, from aloneness, or the feelings of aloneness that we all get with a greyness that settles above us in the sky. It is a sadness that isn’t quite sadness; a settling, not quite an embrace, but not closed-ness, either. And peering out from our sheer curtains that still remind us of a summer we will always cling to, we are all the greyness that is spread across the sky, moving with the clouds that glide above our heads, giving to us a damp way of life, a rain that makes our hands cold even when we are inside. The kind that makes us dig into our closets for our blankets; we seek out human touch and the softness of our bare skin, the only kind of warmth that comes with bareness.
And you are the bursts of blue that come to me in moments when I feel that I have become unraveled, a coming apart that makes no noise but falls quietly around me, sinking beneath us, invisible, blanketed. And when I miss you, I dream of walking to the ocean alone and walking in the cold sand. The water is cold, and if it is blue, like the time we passed by it and saw its rising and falling below us outside of our windows, then I wouldn’t see it in the darkness. But I do not think it matters. And I do not think I would know what to do once I got there. Maybe I could let the cold take over me in a winter that hasn’t reached you yet. Or I could turn back and walk towards home. Maybe I could whisper words that would carry themselves to you while you were sleeping, near your own ocean’s shore. I would think of persistence and inconvenience and the molding of a tenderness that is strong enough to be thrown back and forth. Maybe, a cold sand can make one think of warmness that persists in the places that we cannot see. But I would not think of a luck that has carried itself to us while we waited to bump into each other in this life, to carry each other to where our true selves belong in the idea of who we think we are.