So there is going to be a play.
How I wish I could be there…
This is after all what writing does best. catharsis.
Even talking to oneself is enough. It is enough to put pain into words.
Stare at it in the face until you’re breathless blue.
Read it like a mantra until it sinks in and you drown.
You’re drowning in memories, in old habits
in turns of phrase and tea parties with cheap dim sum,
in perpetual lateness and lostness and that adorable ineptitude
at dealing with life, and eventually, the keeping of it.
and all that’s left is the things unsaid
and a pang of guilt.
(i am guilty of hoarding your letters.)
(i am guilty of never speaking to anyone about you.)