My darling,
I hope this email finds you well. I've written this email many times in my head. In some versions, it's short and polite, and simply touches base to establish an agreement of a longer and more consistent exchange. In other versions, it is long and melancholic, and in that version I mostly focus about our inability to express pain. Why is grief beyond language? Are our lives exacerbating this muteness? The fact that we cannot speak, that we are indeed, in closets? I often wonder what it would feel like to just be, to fall in love without the fear that grips me every time. Not the fear of loss, that is quite inevitable. But the fear of endings, always arriving too soon and rather unwelcomed.
I know that there will be no settling, no growing old together. Parents will not be intervening in our collective lives, and most likely, no children (adopted or biological) to give us grief. In a way, it is destined to end before it really starts.
I suppose this is not one of those emails. Perhaps it is the former, in which I ask you; How are you these days? I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours,
