SCMLA

This letter is written on stationary from a college job, it mentions a cat I still have, I'm not sure when it is from or whom it is about. It reveals to me how cold I can be when I'm very upset.

My friend, crick has left me presents of dead flea bodies on my bedspread. The bodies don't bother him, after they too have passed, but I'm disconcerted with idea of sharing my sheets with their corpses. Also with the sharing of an old sheet set, sweaty and smelling of too many hours with one human I used to call my friend. The term is off-limits now and I try to accept the situation with grace, It's such a preoccupation (the sheets, not the term) that the current solution has eerie finality that I haven't quite accepted with any form of grace.

I have always thought this, as I have let go of many things I cling too long to. It is not for me to say whether or not passage will be given. It's not in my hands. How odd.

Crick, the indie rock cat. He's pawing my pen as I ruffle his neck fur. He's happy I saved him from being locked in a spare room and I'm happy he's my friend. I've had friends that made promises always before in quiet moments after a smile and a stare. Crick has never promised my anything. After looking at my writing with some curiosity, he settles near my hip. He nestles his warm body into my spine. The perfect place for a friend, cat or human.

According to the last few days, I've lost a friend. He told me with thick fingers around my forearm. I was trying to get out the door, not his life. I could hear everything he said while I watched his lips move silently. I already knew too much about what was going on. It makes sense for a friendship with a history of doom and dark clouds to end. Its makes a rational decision to avoid interpersonal communication with someone you fancy that also you are easily made very angry with.