katierose kimball

alexcu1280@gmail.com

Dear Alex

Dear Alex, I’m know I haven’t replied to you in almost four months but I swear, it’s only because I’ve been waiting for the right moment and it never comes. You’re wanting the birds to sing for me instead of for themselves. Because you’re from Maine maybe you know this feeling already: I’ve been washing my feet into the ocean but always returning wet up to my knees; it’s a stupid paradox and a silly accident I keep repeating (beware, dog does bite; dog being blue and foamymouthed this time). I wonder if I couldn’t swim, I’d keep walking and let the water swallow me whole, and sometimes, I think I’d become it: loud and bitter and cold.

Here’s a list of things to do instead of becoming infinite:

- shower with your clothes on

- hold an ice cube

- study birds

- write a poem

Maybe it’s all one loud scream, a thousand miles away, compressed into a page. Or maybe I’ll never speak to you again so I’ll send you a message in a bottle and wait for the Pacific currents to go the other direction. You signed your letters love but,

My apologies, Noel