Dearest,
You wrote me a letter once. I opened it on a stone bridge in an empty park, during one of those apocalyptic half-hours after a rainstorm. It was one of those moments when everything's a grayish russet-cherry hue, when the dead may rise from their tombs, when the heavens seem to rape the Earth, when sounds blend with sights and smells and thoughts. I opened your letter without much inspiration or desire, for the misty world had kidnapped most of my enthusiasm and violated it beyond repair. And it was all so beautiful, dearest.
Lately, I can only seem to remember you when I'm writing – you're standing within arm's reach, patiently waiting for me to finish my letter to you. Your details are so clear right now, dearest – but your palpable optimism screams to me more than any other detail. It's an unmistakably blonde, weary, nervous cheerfulness that bathes everything around you in a harsh glow. Only now can I recall that glow, and how it shaped me as a human being… but you're fully aware of that. For now, I remember opening your letter, on that grayish day in the park.
The envelope – and consequently my mind – was stamped with a little red butterfly in the top right corner. The ink was horribly smudged and it took me a moment to realize that it was indeed a butterfly and not a fruit basket, but dearest, oh dearest! – it was so artfully done! With a newfound sense of care, I pried it open.
A haiku was scrawled on thick, expensive paper, and I regurgitated it as I read.
Dreams cannot fathom
The gorgeous scenery here
…something something… augh!
Oh! Oh dearest, if only I could remember the final line – all I know is that it was astonishingly clever, and at that exact moment, I began to adapt a new philosophy on love; on imagination; on writing; and, dare I say it, on life itself. It was those five forgotten syllables of raw literary brilliance that shaped me into the mess I am today (or whenever you receive this handwritten rarity, in your little red mailbox, sealed and tripwired with the guts of a smoke alarm, like I remember it). I'm sure you can't remember the syllables either, can you?
But it doesn't matter. Those delicate words came from you, and no amount of remembering will be able to bring you – flesh and blood and emotion – back to me. Only in me do your smiling remnants exist – only in my rare and fleeting moments of genius do you continue to live on, and… and dearest… perhaps that's all we need, right? Rare snippets of your soul fidgeting behind my eyes.
I crushed the expensive paper in my grip and let the wind take it away. The haiku danced across the dewy grey grass for a moment, and soon disappeared in the hostile depths of the sobbing river. And it was a spectacle.
I trust that the other world is not as forbidding as you feared it would be. I shall join you, in due time. But as for now, I leave you with this letter. And my love, of course.