Piercing Archives — Rowan Peirce

fragment_002.eml

This might never reach you. Or maybe it will. 
I don't know which thought terrifies me more. T
he silence in this room is thick enough to choke on. Just the clock ticking. 
Each second feels like a small theft.

I need to say this. 
Need you to know. 
Even if you never read it. 
There's a hollow space behind my ribs now. I
t echoes. I keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore. 
A habit. Like expecting light when I flip a switch, but the power's gone out.

The keys of my laptop are cold and loud under my palm. 
I press down hard, thinking you'll show up in my email. 
These words feel like throwing stones into a well and never hearing them hit bottom. 
Do you remember that cafe? The steam rising from your cup? I can still smell the coffee. Bitter. Like this taste in my mouth. 
I wrote your name once. Just once. 
Then crossed it out so violently I tore the page. 
The ink bled through to the wood underneath.

Sometimes I stand in front of the bookshelf and run my fingers along the spines. 
Your books. 
The ones you gave me. I don't open them. 
I just touch the leather bindings and feel the gold lettering. It's the closest thing to conversation we've had in months. 
The silence is a living thing now. It sleeps in your chair. Eats at your place at the table. I set two cups out this morning. Poured coffee in both. M
ine's gone cold. Yours is still full.

I dreamt last night that I was shouting in an empty field. Nosomsu873404jvhcn
  

STATUS: corrupted — partial data loss detected; recovery log 2009.07.16

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