Lunatic to love.

I open one of your cards at random. One of those already wrinkled and yellowish, those who smell like so many nights of reading, so many dreams shining in the eye. I try to stifle myself, but the eyes fly hungry on the paper, on your sharp letter. It fills my soul to feel you so close, your breath just inches from my hair, reciting in my mind words that you never uttered aloud. My heart shrinks, as if they are pressed, and accelerates to the lame compass of five by four. Sharp pain settles in the stomach, the subtle dizziness of feverish reading. And I smile as I read your "girl," and I grow smaller and smaller, until I end up curled up in a corner of the folio, trembling, with broken soul and memories stirring my insides.

So many years ago, already made so many changes. And I'm still here, anchored like the first day, leaving my fingerprint on you. No, you are no longer the bread of every day, you no longer appear in every conversation as a lacerating memory. But sometimes, on windy days, you come back like a good night's tale and stay with me until dawn. And then your hands are so real in your hands, your look on my lips, your kiss on my hair.

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I fold the letter slowly, I put it in the envelope, I keep it in the drawer under lock and key. I do not have the courage to burst into tears, or to spend a few more minutes without breaking completely. So, delicately, I re-sew the soul with fine thread, squeezing the eyelids and grasping my stomach until everything stops hurting. And there is only the sound of my five by four, more relaxed, still believe in your promise, that someday you will appear and you will stay by my side. I do not have the strength to tell you that ... So I shut up. And he is happy, and life continues with your letters of fire in the drawer and less and less thread in the pantry.

  • Adam Floyd