Found in the remnants of rains that never fell, in the darkest corners of the broken heart, in the scars that crisscross your fragile form, I find dead letters of who you were.
Taken, or given, we’ll never know, left to mutter through dead letters, dead bones, dead bodies and dreams, someone once like you had dreamed.
I dream your face but forget the lines, the curves, the frame as you blur to black, brown, yellow, and red, to nothing but an echo of you and the fool’s gold memories I construct from half-remembered moments.
You are lost, an unclaimed body in an unknown morgue and now none but we shall remember you name.
We who claim your dead letters.
We who claim your dead past.
I remember you in a tree, laughing, singing, telling me how you were going to change the world, not seeing how easily the world could change you.
First fell the tree, then stopped the laughing, then ended the singing, and then you only told me you didn’t need to change.
And it’s funny how easily we sell away our soul.
It’s tragic how happily we dig our own graves.
It’s frightening how indifferently we die away, killing ourselves word by word by word by deed.
I knew you once, and loved the flower that you were, delicate and dying the moment you took breath but beautiful in your fragility.
I remember loving you when you were six and we were both playing in the sand under a forgiving sun. Too soon came the moon, the night, and the shadows, and as they played over your face, and hid your eyes, I couldn’t tell which you I had loved, sun, or moon, and could only wonder which had been real.
Had there been reality at all?
The dead letters don’t mention my name, but whisper in pained screams of an edge I saw you walking but had not the courage to pull you from. Perhaps a stronger person, a better person, a person who wasn’t me might have saved you from the darkness that lay in your hidden heart but it was never going to be me.
Dead letters, forgotten in a box under a bed you barely knew, found and given me, as I become historian to the person that you were. All I can do now is write, and recall, and lay out the lesson that you paid so greatly to teach us.
I sit under the shade of a tree which is long dead and find myself writing you letters dead upon dying, asking questions I dare only ask now, knowing that I’ve had the answers all along, if only I could decipher what it is you wanted me to know.