Dear Mike Polansky,
It ended as one great body of water. Nowhere to land. As if the oceans swallowed it all up. An iceberg on which I’d been floating. Grief. Empty sea to empty sea.
Then there we were, strangers. In a strange city, a wedding, a surplus of ceremonial magic amassing between us in the mess of hearts and bodies.
I wonder what it’s like to find meaning in coincidences. To be the one who maps them out. Some could be valleys, some archipelagos, some cities on islands, some cities lost.
You grabbed the book from my hands, read the final page to me. A makeshift-keepsake-bookmark, an old San Francisco bus transfer, fell out, drifted like my heart’s last feather to the floor. I could have gone back to last year. With him, up to my chin in precipitous hills. Western glow of fog sitting midair. But I left it.
Perhaps it’s just a concept being brought to life. The lovely chaos of beginning again. I barely knew you, but in your hands you held a small fire which you gave to me. If your experience differed from mine, don’t worry. How we feel has little to do with reciprocity, and this is good. I only want to thank you.
Sweet Lit | September 2014