My Dearest Fractious Poet,
It is always good to hear from you. I am particularly pleased that despite the change in your circumstance, you continue to write. I see you sometimes in the snow that is drifted on my balcony. You are the shadow shaped like a Real Boy, keeping watch over me. It reminds me that I must try and mend the holes in these wings. Silly things that they are, I hang onto them yet.
I write and write and write some more… So little of it is fit for public consumption. I have changed my hair, the arrangement of my furniture. I’ve changed my desktop photos and all the routes that I used to take. I still feel veiled in a clinging plastic wrap of consequence and the sweat-like patina of fear. I wear my bruises on the inside. How is it with you? Do you keep to the old routines? Did they fall back into place after the furious shaking of your home’s foundation?
Your words linger in my thoughts when I look in the mirror these days. I feel less real as this middle time spins itself out with no end in sight. Less tethered in a now that doesn’t seem to have much use for me and wishing so desperately for a sign, anything to tell me this is worth it at all. Anything to tell me that I am still real in this unreality that I have created.
Your poetry does comfort me, sporadic as it comes. How I wish that I could tell you so directly. How I wish that I could hear you sing for me and that I could shower you in faery dust and warm knitted scarves. Ah-h-h, now there is fodder for poetry and it is a thought that makes me smile.
When you look in the mirror, look for me. I’ll be over your left shoulder. Should you ever doubt that you are still real, look for yourself here. Me and the Skin Horse will always know you for one of our own.
As always, Your Fractured Muse