Hiya Anderson,
Stars hold your fires. Writing's archaic, I bet you'll say that as soon as you open this up. I didn't even know where to buy stationary, did you know that? I had strolled into the shop and they gave me this thinking it was my style, but now I'm looking at these daisies crawling up the page and I'm not sure if I should write over or around them.
I should have just emailed you this and saved myself the trouble, but I want you to hold this in your hands and know that I held it once, before I tucked it into a letter box and shipped it off to Washington. The strangest of states and you're not even there to sit in a house painted completely white, sometimes I wonder what you're up to. I want to know what your days are like, who fills them. I suppose this is me saying I miss you. Sandpaper voice, I'm missing a story from you.
Sit yourself down in something comfortable, or even just on the ground, I want for a moment to imagine that we're back in Boston, that I'm sitting across from you and you're on that jacket of mine-- the french one that I think you actually hated more than you'd ever admit, asking you again, for the hundredth time, to tell me something that I don't know yet.
Don't tell me to google it, humour me.
I need something to compare this to, when people ask me how I feel. I don't know how I look these days, but I feel like it's different, when I get hands on my arm, on my shoulder, on my cheek, asking me if I'm alright, telling me that things will be just fine. There's only so much you can say, so much you can feed them and now I'm looking for a line.
Give me something to compare the notion of being torn apart with, something that I can use when they ask me what it's like? I am an insignificant soul in the middle of the world these days. New York breathes life and I can't spare myself a moment to blink before something changes before my eyes. It's dizzying, something has changed about the world I live in--- or maybe that's the problem. It continues to change and here I am, stoic. I remain the same, an impossibility, with the push and pull of change grating me down.
I am a whole that is missing the segments to make it complete, there are parts of me missing. They live in Washington and they live in Brookline and they live so very far away from me now that it feels harder to breathe. I am missing limbs of myself. There's a painting in my room now, by an artist of whose work I remember you being quite enamoured with.
Please reply to me, please come see me. I miss you Anderson, and every star in the constellation we once fell into, dazzled and dizzied.
Love Always,
Arielle
