My dear, I woke up – I use the phrase casually because you know that I didn’t sleep all night – knowing what I wanted to write, what I wanted to tell you, how I wanted to phrase the sentences. But then the day wore on, last night’s spell – for it must have been a spell, nothing else could explain its strange gravity. I remember a friend’s voice note on my phone from months ago: Be careful. Words are spells, words are spells – seemed like a distant memory, and not even mine; my love, sometimes this feels like delirium, a particularly strong episode of vertigo – L’appel du vide, I remember from a French class I quit years ago. But then the day wore on, and while watching the news, I felt guilty to have ever thought about kisses, or to have ever written about anything other than misery.
And now, after reading your dream — for a second I wonder: who will tell me about your death, or you about mine? We will vanish from each other’s life like untraceable voices — my dear, I feel guilty for having never kissed you – even though I know I couldn’t have –, for thinking about anything other than the touch of your hands – an invented memory – or for having written even a word that was not about you.
My love, to be alive is strange.