Everything is moving around me. People are talking. The fan above me is revolving. The birds have flown home. The sun has risen and set again. The earth is rotating. But the clocks. Damn it, the clocks.
I am staring at your letter. Your handwriting. Yours. I guess that is enough for me to love it, no matter how many words you chew in between. I hold the letter close to my face and breathe it in. Maybe it has some faint scent of yours remaining. I bring it close to my lips because the pen which wrote it was touched by you. I lie on the bed keeping the letter on my chest. Maybe that way the hands which folded it might save my drowning heart.
This is all I have of you. A letter. The only belonging.