Dear Senthuran

Forever
doesn’t exist in this world. I thought you were forever; have I been breaking my own heart?

I cannot survive the thought of ends, of being alone.

It’s never too late—that’s a human lie of time, there is no late, there is mostly now because now is so flexible, I find.

and it won’t even feel like forever, because what is forever when there is no concept of anything else, a world with no end.

. I’m not here. I am here and too much of a bruise

We can’t save everyone; we might not be able to save anyone.

What is love if not a shield thrown up around you when you are too injured to throw it up yourself?

I’m not interested in resilience, but in how to move through this world with reciprocal tenderness, even though this only works with people interested in the same thing.

Remembering is the death of mercy.

I’m afraid of suffering, of being trapped alive. Dying just hurts those left behind, it has nothing to do with me. I’ll be gone, redundant. I imagine it will be what it was before I was born: nothing.