• And so it's over. Not completely, of course. It won't be over until you receive it. The long envelope contains the earrings you gave me for Christmas last year, accompanied by a simple, three word note. I take a deep breath, my heart arrhythmic. It's a funny thing, my heart. It is strong and steady, beating soundly in my chest, until suddenly the soft thump-thump becomes a manic hammering, banging out the syllables of your name against my ribcage.

    This, I suppose, is the price of loving you.

    Do you remember? We were sitting in your bedroom one night. Or, maybe it was early morning, I can't quite remember. I sat perched on the edge of your bed, the one that would leave me with a terrible back ache, an ache you would so easily massage away on that last day we spent together. You were sprawled out on the floor, sifting through piles of notebooks.

    "Do you want me to read one to you? I don't have to, if you're bored...."

    I insisted, "Yes, of course, I want to hear!"

    I was so eager to hear what you had to say. Your words, the ones you use to make art, the ones you hold so dear. I thought they might bring us closer. I thought that I might find myself in them, and ultimately, in you.

    How embarrassingly idealistic of me.

    You told me, "I could never love anything more than words. Ever."

    How I wish I had believed you.

    Tell me, do you remember? The night you rescued me, whisked me away to your home, do you remember? I do. I remember it all too clearly. We sat together on your bed, speaking softly in the dull light of the lamp. I had bloodied my body in a vain attempt to remedy the crushing waves of anger and shame that so often engulf me. You salved the wounds so easily and with such care, it was at that moment I could no longer see myself living without you.

    And yet, here I am. Alive and without you. Only 5 months have passed, but it feels like it's been years. And though I have no desire to throw myself from the top of a bridge, I admit that I frequently dream of you, only to awaken with the salty taste of tears on my lips. This distance is making it easier, but there's still a slight ache, a yearning in my bones, to stand once again in your presence.

    I take a deep breath as I write your address. I've neglected to pen a return; you should know exactly who it's from. I seal the envelope slowly, deliberately. This is special. It's something worth remembering. Will you remember?