Dear You,

It’s been many months since the last letter. Something unnameable sat between pen and thought, something that refused to be left behind.

The theme of gardening wilts beside me as I sip a warm cup of tea and wonder which thoughts might have meaning.

I’m filled with an ongoing case of nothingness that overflows without restraint. When trying to grasp at it, I find there is nothing to examine, so instead gaze at what some call lighthouses and others call memory.

Maybe this explains where the months have gone, or why the waves no longer disturb me.

Love,
Me