rifts

H and I spend summers apart. It's ok. We stretch ourselves to gauze, aching across many thousands of miles and then homecoming, like a comet, smashes the world apart with light. Sometimes this is the best part of the year, but during the actual time everything feels abstracted and thin.

I save myself by writing letters, maybe he is saved by them. For me, loading all of my words and pictures into an anonymous blue box and knowing it will sit unassuming on a communal table, winking and shivering until he picks it up, is gleeful.

And sometimes I really like to look back through what I've made. It doesn't feel like Work with a formal W. But it is shockingly relevant to that word, which is odd. For love.