Working Backwards

Dear Fernando,

We don’t write letters anymore.

We (you & I) never did.

That we

is a tinder baby 

who has graduated 

to 

whatsapp 

facebook 

facetime

and 

instagram.

But what I mean by “we” 

(don’t write letters anymore) 

is the “we” who are the molecules 

that make up a society. 

This “we” 

doesn’t handwrite letters anymore 

or rarely if at all. 

We text or email 

and we get shit done. 

Short snippets of meaning 

and numbers 

and keys tapping

 into the oblivion 

of a news feed.

...

 But there is something 

intrinsically romantic 

about a handwritten letter 

as the volumes 

of love letters 

from famous pasts 

stacked high in dusty libraries 

will attest.

And so I write.

To you

This letter

But

This is not 

a love letter.

It couldn’t possibly be.

For I am not suffering.

I certainly don’t have cholera.

Or Ebola.

Or Zika.

Which is good.

Both of which, however, have similar symptoms to love. 

Nausea

being the most prominent 

shortness of breath another 

increased heart rate, 

loss of appetite, 

loss of fluids 

and 

rapid 

weight 

loss 

another, 

and 

a fever 

which causes 

hallucinations 

of the most whimsical and unrealistic in nature.

And so this? 

We? 

You and me? 

This can’t be love.

It is possible 

however 

that I am on drugs  

as I am presenting 

very clear signs 

of this disease: 

clarity of thoughts 

awakened vision, 

an overblown sense of strength and empowerment, 

sustained energy 

and 

an interest 

and 

a craving 

for continued use 

So I think it is obvious

I must be addicted to cocaine 

despite years of not having used the drug.

It’s the only obvious answer.

Because I have been in love before

  

so 

I know 

it feels 

a little more 

like 

dying.

And this does not.

If. 

Let’s say 

as a hypothetical scenario

 IF 

I was to be so bold 

as to pretend 

for a moment 

that perhaps 

I could maybe 

be 

in 

love 

language

would collapse in on itself 

and 

I would be left 

with the ash 

of words 

upon my hands.

This can’t be love 

because 

compromise 

sacrifice 

and 

tolerance 

no longer guard the path

that leads to  

"relationship". 

Desire 

joy 

and 

wholeness 

instead light the way.

THEY’RE NOT EVEN FUCKING ANTONYMS FOR THE FORMER SET OF WORDS!!!

It’s not even a tension of opposites.

It’s a whole new ball game 

and

I know 

nothing 

of baseball.

This can’t be love

 because 

that would

BLOW MY TINY BRAIN APART

It would turn my world upside down. 

And this foray into cliché should feel terrifying!

But instead it feels like I want to put my PJs on and read a book beside you.

Because being with you 

feels like a sigh of relief 

and 

I have never fit 

so comfortably 

in someone’s arms 

that I fall asleep 

easily 

and 

do not wake 

till morning. 

And I have never 

felt 

so open 

and 

willing 

to being whacked 

on the head 

with 

care 

and 

affection.

And I have never not fantasised about a future 

because 

the present 

feels 

rather 

fitting and fine.

(We = you & me)

Love, 

Sarah