November 26, 2025

(In retrospect after months of therapy, I know this was written in a dark time and it now reads much more like a letter to myself but take it how you will.)

A Letter to Whoever May Come in the Future

You, you are late.

I have felt your ache for

as long as I can remember. Felt you

brush over my skin in the depths

of my sleep.

I have told you about the moon, the birds,

the lakes, and the trees. Felt you in the

warmth of the sun, the cold in the night.

I told everyone about you! How you

were late but coming, you are coming!

I have asked you questions — most

importantly — how should I find you in everything else?

The joys, the grief, the leaves, the friends, my

mother, the dark, the talks, and the books.

You have always been perfect: the way you

knew, the sadness in your eyes, the honey in your voice.

I want you to know that I love you, even when it’s hard. Even on the days

I could barely love myself.

I don’t mind that you’re not here, late

or never coming.

I just want you to know I’ve always loved you.