I can remember quite clearly, the way that you would wake up when I got into bed at 5 in the morning. Your hair was short then, and when I ran my fingers through I, I always felt the strands end too soon, and then they were on the back of your neck, and then we were together.
I remember these little moments in flourishes of faintness- watching the countryside. Inside my notebook is a post card I wrote you, though I don’t know if I want to send it. It would be a shame though, because I always paid for the postage.
But I don’t think you want to hear from me anymore. Maybe a lack of post makes things easier for you. But not for me- for me I’ve got to write you, and pay the stamp fee as if I were to send it, though I never do. Not since the first one I typed met with no reply.
I hear from you rather in the Irish hills, taste you in the city air that is still new. Like Banshee calls, they are pen strokes, and perhaps I haunt the moor of your home in Connecticut some three thousand miles away.
If so I am well and truly sorry.
I was never any good at containing such a strange thing as spirit.