Dear Wigleaf,

Here are 11 things that broke my heart today: the bulletproof taste of a cold cherry; that I can't remember your face, just the image of your palms cupping a blood moon; the brutal mirror of friendship, shattered; the idea that I did, in fact, figure my life out, and that this is, in fact, all it is; the creeping sense that my lucky number—11—is not lucky anymore; I never see fireflies in the park anymore, just the essence of them—some would call that hallucination, I call it the power of delusion; the invisible death of cable tv; the total whateverness of existence—I had good dinner, I napped to the sound of music made by rain, I didn't disappoint anyone in my daydreams; potential futures; how I persist holding you in my hands like snow past its prime, seeping through my fingers, my god, I cannot hold onto to anything; I forgive you.


P.S. You can peel the stamp off the postcard and use it to patch your heart together. Mail it to me. I'll keep it safe.

Love,

Blake