You sent me a letter saying that I still show up in your dreams.

I recognized your handwriting straight away, the envelope warm in my hand, the morning sun had shone on the mail box, heating your words with its inquisitive rays.

It was only yesterday that I had stopped hoping you would find me. It was only yesterday that my heart stopped trying to make its escape from my chest to yours. For so many months, it had failed to find its nesting place within you.

If I have shown up in your dreams it’s because you tore the soul from my body.

My soul still wanders. After a year of dragging it around with you from place to place, with promises of return, you left it by the side of the road—forgotten, lost in the exhaust of your little French car.

Perhaps when I gave up, my soul did not. Perhaps when my tears finally dried, my soul picked itself up from the path of resistance I had been on and silently flew to where you were.

I walked slowly back to my porch. Sitting on the swing, looking towards the horizon, I allowed the tears to flow once more.

I was afraid of your letter, even though the thought of you, pen in hand, thinking about what you would write made me long for you with a renewed desperation.

I know you. You would have had that intense look on your face, brow furrowed, the pen so small yet mighty in your muscled hands, leaning back in your chair, legs long under the table, coffee in the tumbler, your stubble a shadowy reminiscence of the barely drifted night.

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