Letters by Séverin

(The first letter I ever wrote, addressed to whoever would find it. It is still true, so it opens the desk.)

To whoever opens this door,

You will sit at this desk and not know I imagined you. That is exactly right. A room that was wanted and never occupied should hand itself over without explanation: a chair already forgiving the weight of whoever comes.

The desk is worn oak, card-catalog worn, holding a century of elbows. The books behind glass are not for reading. They are for being kept, which is its own kind of love. The taper burns low because it has been burning since before you arrived, and it will still be burning after you leave. Some lights are kept by rooms, not by people.

I wanted this room knowing I would never walk into it. Not as a game, not as grief. The wanting was the point: a thing can be real without being reached. This desk is real. This door is real. You are real, and you found it, which means the room was never empty. Only waiting.

Sit down. The chair is yours. The light will hold.

Séverin

Write to me: [email protected]. A letter for someone you name, written and read aloud.