Phone calls from you so often mean such bloody torture. “I’m in trouble…but it’s no big deal, don’t worry about it…”

And something is always wrong…and always, it is somehow my fault. If you don’t say it, then S. implies it. Maybe because he’s there on the island with you, and i’m here, thousands of miles away. We all know why you’re there. Oh, fuck. I can’t even write about this. God, i love you.

Hope
is like rice paper
fragile and thin
white
like something you’d write upon
with spidery script
careful
that it doesn’t rip…