when i write to you, someone always unfollows me. i don’t understand if it’s because my writing to you are like fucked up love letters or because they do not think you’re real and it’s silly. can i tell the world who you are?
it’s been a long time since i wrote to you. i’ve exhausted my heart and my head and my headaches searching for words. for genuine words i can offer you. please stop reading now.
i tried to draw fatigue and etch the moon into my hands. how funny, how i sleep and how i bleed and how tired i am getting.
i hope you do not mind this. because, i found you in the thick of my own wildfire, burning through the cemeteries late at night. i had no future then, and i have a future so inaudible now (but the winds change strongly for me). i saw a lantern at the entrance and i followed you until i discovered gardens, tomato plants among them, and a picture of new york.
i write to you tonight in desperation. my ink is on its last cry for right now and the words are so sloppy and i wish you didn’t have them, not tonight. but i write because you are a light in darkness, and i am right now in inky, crying darkness.
wildflower. wildflower wildflower. suits you well. so very beautiful.
(i miss you.)
If I were to ever have a lover, I think I would talk to them the way I talk to you. These sentiments and plans we write out and smile to are all characteristic of love, I think. What is love, though? Is it my need to hold you when you are upset and is it
the concrete flesh beneath my feet
stretches as it’s beaten down by
strangers i am closer than the
street to knowing it’s cold for
them it’s snowing and i feel
music in my heels and new
york city steals one more heart —
how it stole another heart! i
couldn’t feel any chill myself but a fire
of discovery i found through the
discovery of fire
new york gave my heart back but never
took the flame
the first thing i did when i woke up was read your email. like a lot of people now i use my mobile as a pocket watch and anyway i read it. as usual we were off by a half hour and missed each other. missed. miss. i miss you.
I’m sorry I haven’t written.
I’m getting the darkroom back. I have all these negatives I want to print and now I have hope for better negatives — maybe I won’t go out, but Sudek found ways around being homebound. I’ll start being creative. I have nobody to take photographs of but I’ll bring life to still life. And I’ll take so many photographs for you, you’ll have to throw some away, and you will feel bad I shipped a box that heavy.
And I will tell you it’s worth the money.