Papillon,
I have never loved as much as I loved you. Even as our promise, in the form of a metal ring, still burns tight on my finger, I fear that I have lost you. You are gone. You are dead, and you will not be coming back.
I am sorry that I did not do more to help. I am sorry that I did not try harder, even if you told me not to. I should have regardless. And now I must live with it, that you are gone, and I stood by and did nothing about it.
The city is colder now than it was before. I'm sitting in our apartment. I haven’t been here in months. I’ve been living above the pub. Dust has covered everything, and the guilt of neglect is eating at me. Depression isn’t an unfamiliar friend, but it’s an old friend whom I had not seen for a very long time. Turns out, he’s been here for a while, dogging my every step. Although I tried to ignore him, he’s persistent.
I always told myself that I had roots here, now, and that I could not leave. But the businesses will do well enough in my absence; I have hired managers to keep them running. I am leaving Skylar and Bjorn behind, but they are grown, and they can take care of themselves. They are all I have, Papillon. They are all that is left.
Home calls to me. The heat and the acrid brightness of Queensland – I have lost hope that you will come back to me, my love, but I could not leave without some kind of closure. If I leave this letter for you, it will have to be closure enough. This home is a mausoleum, a museum to the memory of you. This letter is flower upon the grave.
I will not say goodbye. For a man who has only ever let go in his life, this time I find that I cannot.
I will always be yours.
Elliot.
The letter is folded and slipped neatly into a thick parchment envelope, Pi's name scrawled in Lancaster's trademark handwriting across the front. The letter is folded upon the pillow, coated also with dust. The apartment is permeated with the scent of time; that sharp scent of material possessions, untouched.
At the door, the tall musician pulls the old backpacker's pack onto his shoulders. One bag, that is all he needs. It is all he has ever needed.
Pausing by the door, he pauses, but eventually resists the urge to look back. He will not say goodbye.
The door closes with a click, locked behind him.
I have never loved as much as I loved you. Even as our promise, in the form of a metal ring, still burns tight on my finger, I fear that I have lost you. You are gone. You are dead, and you will not be coming back.
I am sorry that I did not do more to help. I am sorry that I did not try harder, even if you told me not to. I should have regardless. And now I must live with it, that you are gone, and I stood by and did nothing about it.
The city is colder now than it was before. I'm sitting in our apartment. I haven’t been here in months. I’ve been living above the pub. Dust has covered everything, and the guilt of neglect is eating at me. Depression isn’t an unfamiliar friend, but it’s an old friend whom I had not seen for a very long time. Turns out, he’s been here for a while, dogging my every step. Although I tried to ignore him, he’s persistent.
I always told myself that I had roots here, now, and that I could not leave. But the businesses will do well enough in my absence; I have hired managers to keep them running. I am leaving Skylar and Bjorn behind, but they are grown, and they can take care of themselves. They are all I have, Papillon. They are all that is left.
Home calls to me. The heat and the acrid brightness of Queensland – I have lost hope that you will come back to me, my love, but I could not leave without some kind of closure. If I leave this letter for you, it will have to be closure enough. This home is a mausoleum, a museum to the memory of you. This letter is flower upon the grave.
I will not say goodbye. For a man who has only ever let go in his life, this time I find that I cannot.
I will always be yours.
Elliot.
__________________________
The letter is folded and slipped neatly into a thick parchment envelope, Pi's name scrawled in Lancaster's trademark handwriting across the front. The letter is folded upon the pillow, coated also with dust. The apartment is permeated with the scent of time; that sharp scent of material possessions, untouched.
At the door, the tall musician pulls the old backpacker's pack onto his shoulders. One bag, that is all he needs. It is all he has ever needed.
Pausing by the door, he pauses, but eventually resists the urge to look back. He will not say goodbye.
The door closes with a click, locked behind him.
