agnes: a love letter written too late.

MALIBU, 1992.

a letter, agnes.

i'm sorry this comes to you long past when you needed some closure. or when you wanted it. it is here, and i am here, and i will always, naively, hope that is enough for you.

as terribly sad as it may sound, i have seen your name in my handwriting enough times to notice subtleties in it. back then, you would've laughed at how cinematic this all seems. now, i'm not sure.

i found our letters today. i haven't looked through them in so long, for fear of making myself upset. and now i am realizing i left before i could write a letter goodbye. i only have half of our conversation tucked away in my drawer, but it is revealing itself to be more than enough to remember by. at this point, i am not terribly sure if i'm writing for you or for me. you, as i knew you, would ask if it mattered, and whatever i said you'd argue the opposite. now, i'm not sure. last i heard, you wouldn't know either.

i might just be rambling for my own sake, but i don't think i necessarily need to remind you of how i felt back then, but i am realizing with startling clarity, the depth of emotion i've forgotten since these letters were something new. such a strange thing memory is, we forget easily what we don't pay attention and care to preserving. to be entirely truthful, i didn't pay attention until it was too late.i thought, or more accurately hoped, that i wouldn't have to pay careful attention. i hoped we would be akin to an oral culture - nothing needed to be written down because we have made the choice to relive it infinitely.

this is not a plea to revive that idea. that notion is buried with our old selves. i just feel a lot, and thoroughly. surely, you remember. my connection to that version of me is fading with my memory of our everyday. i'm sorry i'm losing that version of us.

gt.