uncultivated raze i found a letter you wrote me almost five years ago to the day. i hadn't forgotten i had it, but i was close enough to forgetting that i might as well say i did. the letter was a blanket covering the garden we were supposed to plant together as a symbolic act of something, the garden that never went in the ground, that's still there in pieces, in packages, in piles of itself, in a box. i didn't look at the garden pieces. i looked at the letter. there are two letters, actually. one serves as a preface to the other. so i looked at the preface. "trust me," you wrote. "i will waver and i will falter, but i will not abandon you." and i guess that turned out to be true. i guess i was the one who abandoned you. but giving you trust was dousing myself in gasoline and striking a match, hoping not to burn, and when i jumped it was from a ship that had already sunk. when i jumped it wasn't jumping at all. it was swimming to try and get free, to try and find a place where breath could be drawn again. i used to ask myself sometimes if i made the right choice. then i would remember the smell of gasoline, and i'd know it was the only choice there was to be made. but i never told you i liked the way you constructed your h's, did i? they were nicely made, taking the thread that extended from whatever letter had come before, dragging it somewhere new, looping it around itself, making it bend again and cutting it loose once it had a solid foothold. i threw a lot of things away, most of them inside things, things no one would see even if they knew where to look for them, but it would feel wrong to throw this away, this box of stillborn life. so i'll keep it, uncultivated, somewhere near enough that i won't forget it's there, but i'll come close enough to forgetting that i might as well say i have. 140215 what's it to you? who go blather from