Excerpt from letters I've been writing to strangers about friends I once knew, and the people they could have been.
Five thousand steps from where I lay, there’s a boy with blistered feet. His shoes two sizes too big, passed down one year too soon. On Mondays, he walks east, and we meet—peripherally. Incidentally. The way seagulls note the presence of fishermen as both parties attempt to catch fish.
On Mondays, his feet blister from shoes he tries too hard to fill in an attempt to pacify beasts in his chest fed by the cloud heavy lie of his head: “Never enough, Never enough,”
Soundless noise whispers in his ears. It is so loud he misses my greeting, so distracting he misses me entirely.
Two thousand steps from where I lay, he steps on beds of sands in shoes that fit. Size ten.
On Tuesdays, he shakes of his beast, and he is himself again—feet nimble and quick, Meleager besting Atalanta. Without the tricks.
On Wednesdays, his burden presses against his breast, and his shoulders sag beneath the weight again. He feeds the beast lies, believes them to be true in the process, and when made aware of their falsehood, continues to believe them anyway.
From where I lay, I pray to God for telescope vision, or needlepoint fingers to pry the monster from his frame. From where I lay, he is no longer visible: feet too weary to prop legs up, legs too heavy to stand.
He does not hear me when I ask him: whisper your secrets so I may Atlas-carry your burden. My shoulders tuck neatly beneath your arm for you to crutch-lean upon me for support, but still he pushes up at burdens. Pushes me away. Like I said, we meet peripherally—Winter and Spring, our feet never bringing us close enough.