November 3, 2012

My dearest,

“Thinking’s just like not thinking,” you tell me, “our thoughts are just pulses, ideas, scattered, lost, returned, all nonsense. That’s not really thinking. It’s weak.”

You seem so sure.

We are sitting on the grass, the backs of our jeans damp with dew. The English Gardens, the city park, watching the sun rise. We didn’t sleep all night. I want to turn right, fall against your face and kiss you.

Too late, I think, the moment’s lost.

“Thinking’s a pain,” I say instead, as though offering some consolation, to whom, I’m not entirely sure.

Yours, ever and always.