Okay, technically it's the 26th, but I haven't gone to bed yet. Today my spouse and I moved to a new apartment, so this is the first chance I've had to write or blog at all.
Packing the final dregs of our life at this apartment into the moving truck, I find the last book you lent me before the silence fell between us. How foolish I've been, keeping it these five months in hopes that you might come back. But for what? Yet another ending? Convinced you did not want to see me, I went to your apartment anyway, and held the book, and stood without ceremony, wondering if I should try to find my voice. I'm sorry that we ended. You did not deserve that kind of finale. I regret that I could never be the Vita to your Virginia. (Not that they were without shouts and silences, not that Vita was able to save her life, but if only we could have had so many years.) I wish I could have found a way to make you happy. But instead, I put the book at the first of the door, knocked three times, ran away, not even glancing over my shoulder to see if you answered the door. You would not have wanted to hear it, anyway. But know that each day I am burned a little by the tiny flame in my brain that still glows in case you ever want to find your way back.