A Series Of Ghost Letters, The First.

It was never sent.
Never written.
I simply sat, pen in hand. Blue plastic against the soft, alien and out of place.
(I am alien, out of place)
I sat, stiller than still.
Immobile, unchanging. (Do you see? This is what constancy looks like)
I have not moved. It is not hard, dear. Not hard at all.

A blank page. Not blank, lined. But unworded.

I had no words left.
I thought. I could roll it into a cone, perhaps. Hold it to the speaker, let the music speak for me.
The speaker.
Seal it, send it.
Let you know. That you were lost in your little life.
They have always known better than me. But I knew better than you.

Crumpled, blue lined paper. Momentarily stained with a blue plastic pen.

The bluest of Tuesdays.
I may have cried a little.

But only a little. I have cried more for others.

Letter the first,
in the right hand corner,
second window from the bed.

If you close your eyes, it looks like this

and it sounds like the sky, on a cloudy day.