Hello, I'm still here.

Dear Mataki,

I'm still here. I took a vacation. And left myself there. I'm slowly biking back to my skin. There is too much to tell you. A friend of mine, the best writer I knew and unfortunately who past on (another story) once pointed to his head and said he needed a recorder. His ideas were up there somewhere. At the time, I imagined blowing off dusty spines lining his perimeter.

He was a handsome man and when he was gone, he was gone. Just like people do when you're gone: Here is your navy button-up across the bed and here is the photograph of your first Communion and here is the Wolverine miniature on the dresser and here is your half eaten apple on the table and here and here and here. And you've here-ed yourself until all your heres are gone; your shit disappears. And all we have left is your words to hold on. And hold on.