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  • Dearest Cupcake:

    I do not know why I write you these letters, letters that will never be sent, letters that will never be read. But still I feel compelled.

    Writing is a form of sorcery. An act of conjuration. To render what was once inchoate. Invisible. To resurrect. The dry bones of memory into flesh. To revive. The blood of emotions. Heart palpitating. Again. The limbs animate. So vivid.

    When I write, I step inside of the past, this time, not only as a participant, but as an observer. And I can feel now your arms enfolding me again. It is twilight. In our tent, we can hear the coyotes howling. The moon is pregnant. So round. Full. Full of possibilities.

    Writing is an act of contrition. A catharsis.

    When I write, I am like a serpent. Molting.

    These letters are the remains of myself. They are the skin of my grief, my joy, my victory. My defeat.

    Writing is a form of alchemy. With these words, I take what is bitter and I make it potable. I take what is sorrowful and I make it sublime. I bow to the pain. I arise with peace.

    And so I write and I write. . .I write the testimonies of our lives, lives which have vanished, are vanishing, will vanish. I know that these gestures are futile, my words are merely a scribble on water, soon to be erased by time, which washes ashore ceaselessly, the minutes, the hours, the days, the years, the decades…

    And so I write something like this: the loneliness moment in my life was with you.

    That night, I awoke, the coyotes had stopped howling, you were asleep, and unzipping the tent, I went outside, there were so many stars, spiraling, the earth was moist, dew on grass, twigs, so silent, so still, the sky was this black-black void, it was like staring into the mouth of some heathen god who could swallow you at any moment, and I stayed there for the most of the night, until I saw the angel light of the dawn, and when I returned to the tent, you were still asleep, and I felt this unbounded sadness, about the fragility of our lives, and how brief, lightning fast, our existence is, and that no matter what we do, we are ensnared by our bodies, our skin, mucus, bones, and I felt such despair, for I didn't know how I could continue to bear it, incarcerated in matter, isolated by flesh.

    That night, we slept rib to rib. And yet it still felt so far away--as if light years apart.


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