How are you?

Hardly. I rarely attribute negative tones to acknowledgement, to the thought of loved ones haunting the attic of bone houses. The carpenter of curiosity has no use for moments between dawn and dusk, but temperature drops, or when heart racing stops, the coffee cups pile up on my beat up and snow soaked sleepless nights, and I hear in a whisper from the moon - "too soon, too soon." But we do. As we do as we'll do. I'd hate to be the hill atop which hopelessness sits, waiting to slide into the gut, perpetuate the shadow, a light behind eyes cast into eyes. Cheer up, they might say, the best is yet to come. We've got a lot to learn, and when I see you again, I'll be a tree rather than that puddle of water waiting to be sucked up by seared soil. Don't stay wrapped up in "you" for too long, ghosts are only present tense past. A letter to myself and others, as applicable.