On the weekends I write about things like how your hands looked in the afternoon. I write on how we used to talk real and press leaves between pages of books no one was ever going to read. I write about you. I write about driving down long tree lined roads in a time period that feels separate from everything else we ever did together. I write about the smell of sawdust and timber on your clothes. I write about rivers. I write about dreams I am having lately in which you are always driving and I know I am dreaming simply because you are there, and I know you are no longer here. I write about you. I write about the wind being pressed from my chest beneath you, about the panels on your ceilings, about how there was always a leaking faucet.
I get things sometimes, these sensations, in which I can still feel a tether, a beat between now and then, me and you, here and there. I get retroactive anxiety because all the bad things have already happened and I have nothing left to be afraid of. I get up in the middle of the night and walk slowly around the block just to feel my feet press against the hot night cement, and to give my thoughts more room to travel. I get tired easily but I never sleep.
Sometimes I think if I had written you letters while we were in the same room we could have stopped all of this from happening. I know that isn’t true.