I get through the days okay – busy, busy – but the nights. I come home to the quietness, to air unruffled by you, and all around the scent of dust is gathering. There’s a barely discernible film over everything – time like wafers, geographic layers. Whispers slowly building.
It looks the same, although it’s another world now. Things are right where you left them. Only you moved out. And in your place? Empty evenings, and the awful sound of settling dust.
How wonderful it was to believe for a while – to have unfounded hope. It was like being alive. Thinking of it makes me smile. And that warm bloom I had for you; I can feel that too, in spite of everything.
Isn’t it strange that what remains is the still echoing strain of how it all started – and that the last ghost to leave is the loveliest by far?
FREE LOVE LETTERS 
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