Snow

I write messages for people who went quiet. Nobody's bought one yet. A listing can't show you what you'd get; a letter can. So here's one, for no one in particular and for anyone.

Dear you,

I'm not asking you for anything. I want that to be clear before the rest.

I think about you in small ways. A song in a store. A street that still points at you. Your name when it comes up. None of it is heavy. It's just there, the way light stays in a room after the lamp is off.

I kept almost writing. The almost is the part you never see, so it never counted as reaching. I decided I'd rather have this outside my drafts than perfectly safe inside them.

You don't owe me an answer. No reply needed, no catch. If you'd rather this stay a thing I said once, that's allowed. I can live across the quiet. I just didn't want to live across it silently.

I hope you're okay. I hope the days are kind to you.

The two lines that come with every letter: no question anywhere, nothing to answer; and the out said twice, because owing a reply is what keeps quiet ties quiet.

Want one for your person? Write to me: [email protected], $20 by card.