I think part of me is disintegrating. Today came another anonymous letter. Reading it, a surge of sharp sorrow welled in my chest and threatened my eyes. With the last line, I felt on the verge of a revelation, as if this time, instead of the word Love, the letter would be signed.
Once upon a yesterday, when waves
whispered secrets that seashells never
tell, the man in the moon appeared behind
you in the mirror. “I can tell you a
story, of the girl who gave away a stone
heart and died without it,” he said.
“Sounds like a sad story,” you replied.
“All stories are sad,” he said. “They all
end, don’t they?” “What about happily-
ever-after?” you asked. The man in the moon
smiled and touched the reflection of your
hair. “There’s happily, and there’s after,”
he said, “but I am too much like the
moon herself to promise
me a story then.”
reminder: today, wednesday, may 25th, birthday all-you-can-eat fondue, $10, the capstone tea & fondue, (1118 Denman), 7:30 onward.
Who are you, writer? I am divided. Your name would menace my loneliness, but shatter the mystery. Where are your stories going? Every ur-fable steps closer to me, who I am, the way I speak. My words are quoted through these like scattered rain on a lake. That last line, that last line is vividly mine. The shape of those words slots onto my tongue every time I love someone. You mention my hair in such a way that I think you have touched it, that you have spoken with me, that I have held your hand and grasped it tightly. I was beginning to be afraid there would be no more letters, that the terrifying intimacy had ended, but you sent again a letter, one so awful and personal that it scares me and I’m glad. These are magic and magic is not meant to be safe.