You toss ripped-up letters at me day after day. You treat me as though I am a place where your old memories can be burnt and forgotten. I’d hate for you to want to forget me that much.
From this fireplace I write to you, but fire devours my words. These letters will never reach you. We are so close, yet so far apart. Do you even know who you’re sitting in front of?
It’s me. It’s Ken.
I still see you every day, and I thank you for the letters. Although you love to tear the pages into shreds before throwing them at me, I read every corner, every scrap. As part of the fireplace, I see it all.
But you see nothing.
Never mind it. Should you one day need something to hold on to, I hope our bond opens your eyes. I’ll always be here for you.
With much love,