Letters

She thought of him again today. Why does she think of him on all those days, which are really drawn out? Why can't she think of him on days which go by without waiting for you to catch up with them? That way she can think about him without really thinking about him. You know what I mean, just briefly close her eyes and have his features whizz before them but not see definite outlines and forms, so near that if she opens her eyes, she's going to cry because they are not real.

I scan through the letter again. I didn't have to read it to know its contents. The premise is always the same. The reason, however, ranges from the absolute bizzare to the frightfully sensible. I should think it won't surprise me any more - the letter, the reasons, the insanity of it all. Maybe some day when I've seen it all, when she has exhausted all the reasons this world can offer her, I won't be surprised any more. Or at least to a lesser degree. That's what I'd have myself believe. That's what I lead her to believe too - that her letters each month are welcome. That I hold all the answers. Some of them more bizarre than her letters. Has she ever stopped to wonder if I am repaying an old debt? But this isn't about me, is it? It's about her and her letters. And what they contain.

He continues to rule her thoughts even now. As mercilessly as he ruled over them then. It wouldn't be half as bad if she could think of him and not cry. Or if she even remotely knew why she was crying. Why he still made her cry. Or was it just one of those days? But those days this often?

I wish I knew. She doesn't know how much I want to know. Would it scare her if she knew that I want..no need to know? Maybe even more than she does. She doesn't know that when she thinks of him, when she writes those letters, a cloud of ever increasing proportions hangs over my head till a few days after she has called to tell me everything's all right again. I don't write letters, I don't divulge, heck..I don't even know him, know him I mean but I worry for her, for me, maybe even a little for him. And him of course.

Today's letter is shorter than usual. Has she finally realised words and letters don't mean anything? That her peace is to be found in silence. As frustrating as it is for her to search for peace in something not tangible like her beloved words. Her beloved words! Ha! He'd care as much about them if she were at the bottom of the Pacific or sitting next to him. How much longer till she understands that? I am running out of ideas. I'd suggested moving out and a new home - familiarity she said. A new world then? Unfamiliarity she said. A well cooked meal? She sniggerred and reminded me I can't cook. At least I got a snigger out of her.

Will tomorrow get more letters or sniggers I asked? It's upto him she said. I don't know if she meant him or him or Him. Sleep I suggested. Dreams she warned. Books? Romance! Music? Comfort. Beguiling comfort. Letters she said. I want letters. From him.