This is it. The end, or really, the beginning of the end. I put the letter in the mailbox, addressed to her, and it’s only a matter of days before she checks her mail to find it. The contents of the envelope are a letter and three pictures of places we’d been together, but not pictures of us at those places, rather just those places. Monuments tipping their hats to another season that was our lives. There is a certain stench in the air when you visit places with memories attached to them when you want to move on from those memories. There seems to be a haze even on the clearest days. Trees don’t seem to grow, the shade of green on the grass seems to never change despite the season.
Who even mails letter anymore? I had to buy stamps for the first time in so long.
She will probably open the letter like she always does, using one of those letter openers that look more like dull daggers. She will open it because I didn’t put my return address on it. The pictures will probably catch her eye first, but I hope she manages to by pass them and read the letter. It’s more of a note I suppose, a declaration. It’s hard to open conversations that have been dead for so long, even more hard to open it in silence. The walls of her apartment will shift with the wind, waking her up to her the silence.
I thought about making it clever, sort of like a choose your own adventure story that always ended the same. No matter how hard she would try, and no matter how many times she picked options, I would prevail.
The leaves were changing. The grass wasn’t even green.
It’s hard to keep your balance when you are sitting with your elbows on your knees and your hands in your face while you are dosing off. Harder to stand while dosing. I didn’t sleep until I saw the mailman collect, knowing the letter wasn’t in there. Maybe tomorrow, maybe another day, maybe another pictures of another monument without her.