I want to write love letters again. I want more than anything to be writing love letters but lately I have been overwhelmed by the thought of how far everything is from me. Like measuring the distance to space using meters instead of leagues, miles instead of years, lifetimes instead of fantasy.

When the balloons came for me I was worried there were too many. Crowding my crowing face, I relished in batting them away. Where I am today, I feel lucky if I can see my hands in front of my face.

I want to write love letters to you. The distance should have been an absolute value. Behind me, before you, between us, the words always existed and I could taste their proximity. The luxury of fantasy. The millstone of being alive.