Unsent Letter

Dear You,

I will confess to having been obsessed lately, thinking day and night and all points inbetween of what physical object I can possibly send you to accompany these failed missives of apathy and torment, written with such diligence and care before they are torn up and thrown dismissively into the flames.

This morning, as I lay under my cover, it came to me in a blinding flash of inspiration. I am going to send you the first sight that meets my gaze upon waking.

Enclosed: one pair of eyelids.

Please observe the back of them, for this is what I see before I force myself to open my eyes and face yet another day. Note the flickering swirls of colour, the fluctuating nerves of delicate skin, the sticky residue of sleep crystals gathered at the edges.

Since I can no longer close my eyes, you should fully expect your next letter to be tightly wrapped around a package containing the ghostly dance of car headlights that float across my bedroom ceiling at night. I know you treasure each and every gift I send, but please be sure to always take extra special care of them as if they were your own - though I am well aware that you are now living in the desert and have not seen a car headlight or even a human being for some fifteen years.

Hope you are well, that the weather is clement, that the sands are shifting, that the solitude is proving invigorating rather than maddening, and that there are no further signs of plagues of locusts. I don’t wish you were here. Not especially, anyway.

Maddenly Yours Forever,