I cannot make you write.

She rousted me out of bed to write a letter, chuckling at my state of undress. I pulled on a bed jacket and swung out my legs, bending to kiss her shoulder. She is bleeding still, from her time down, in slow drops that take days to well and glisten.


She did not speak it, only pointed to the letter and chided me for being asleep. I said to her "You are the one who isolates yourself." She snorted and looked at me, asking how precisely this got the letter written.


I told her: "You hold on to pain because it is the only strong emotion that comes to you of itself. Anything else you feel needs to be built from the ground up, like these tiktoks and mechanics you are so sympathetic toward. It is a natural force, so you mistake it for the truth."

"Are you saying i'm cold-blooded?"

You are. I also say you should put more faith in what you create."