A letter from July 17th, 2020

I’m sat here reading all of these dumb letters, Thinking of what I want to say, Everyone is asking “How’s life?” and inane, unanswerable questions, I hope you don’t care about that, I don’t want to know where you’re living, or if you got that big job, Here I am, writing my own dumb letter, Fumbling through a wish for what I want you to be, I feel like such a voyeur, Reading in on these people’s lives, It’s weird to think about, all these souls around me, I hope they realise they’re going to get older one day, I’m going to be old, I’ll have withered hands and half shot memories and I’ll take ages to pee, I don’t want to have kids, maybe you do, How’s life? Scratch that. I’m not sure what to say, I guess you’re doing mostly the same, Going out drinking and coming home crying, Then going out drinking again, I’m not writing this with a particular person in mind, Just a silhouette of you, a whisper, a shadow, A half baked attempt at being poetic, I’m drunk and lonely, and I miss you Even though I don’t know you yet, I want to lay in bed drunk with you, and ugly laugh and hold hands with you, I want to tell you that I love you, I want you to believe it, I kind of want to mean it, It’s a crime that I’ll never get to know you, Not until I fully know myself, Maybe I’ll be in a bathroom, drunk writing a letter to another five years older me. Anyway, how’s life? Did you ever end up getting a dog?