Love letter # 181

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 – but 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?

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