I write to you on my plainest paper, forgoing the flowered stationery and letterpress cards for found items. I don’t care that you don’t write back. It’s better to imagine you carrying my scribbled words along with you, miles away. Here is a playbill for a show I didn’t see and here is a poem I found copied out, that reminds me of the heat, the dustiness of our walks, the way I saw you half-blind, chlorine in my eyes. How I sometimes feel like the edges of a pool, calling you over, grasping at floating things, all of them dead. It doesn’t matter, my day to day, these words are for you and I imagine them read, decades later by curious fans. That’s how famous you’ll be. Here, let me stroke your ego, you like it when I do that, don’t you? Don’t say no, let me undo you, for old time’s sake—surrender. The oven timer’s set, lay down our heads first one then another and another, xoxo—no—thinking of you—not quite—yours, Lindsay.
