I am writing to you, but you are not here. You no longer exist. Many years–several years–ago, I fell in love with you while listening to this song. No. I realized I was in love with you while listening to this song. You were asleep, and I was awake, writing, as I am now. I do not recall what we had done earlier that day, but it was something. We always did something. That night you were tired and I was sitting on the other side of the room wishing I could be where you were: unconscious. I don’t know what I was writing, probably something about you, but I was writing. The light by the door to the bathroom was on and it was soft on your feet and legs. Nothing ever bothered you while you slept. The sun would grace our shoulders in the morning and you never noticed. What happened to that person? Where did he go and did he ever actually exist? I want to say that I miss you, but I don’t. I don’t miss your smell, or the way parts of your teeth are eroded, or the way that you lie to protect your desires. Did my husband ever actually exist or were you an interpretation of an ideal?
It does not matter. You are gone. And so am I.