Dear Paul,

The words you left me with are still tracing themselves over my skin. No one has ever entered and then exited my life while remaining a persistent inspiration. I’m inclined to believe one or more of three things; one, you have never exited my life; two, I have never exited yours, and three, entries and exits are imaginary flights of fancy.

There is a trail of east-west ink littering herself upon the wooden floorboards of my home. They are the drafts of my passing and never-ending thoughts of you, and they creak in the brooding accent of unbroken love. I feel need to save them, if not to create something more magnificently eloquent of speech, then to create something more magnificently melancholy of heart.

It was difficult to hear one another above the noise in our crowded minds. Though the silence has in some ways been restorative and healing, it has in others, been imponderably painful. Sometimes I pretend not to see, not to feel, not to understand, for fear of aligning more greatly with constant anticipation, than with faithful participation. Sometimes I’m not sure there is a difference between the two. Creating home has been the only saving grace to the shameful application of only a handful of my moments on Earth.

If you are like me, and I suspect you are, then you might agree that of all the moments here on Earth, there are only a handful we might look back on with less than contentment. Within the oceans of time, each day, I rest. Our moments refuse to be held anywhere except within the streams of my consciousness. In my dreams, I observe how we are holding one another’s hands, and after all this time, I haven’t let yours go.

If we were a bible, we might be like the lost books written by man in his attempts to remove the veils of secrecy. To many, they might amount to no more than anonymous esoteric rhetoric wasting space in an elegant mind. But we become what we drink, and you are the only flavor of excellence I desire to fill my cup with, again and again.

Your eternal companion,