Dearest Deborah,
It’s in the seventies already—and it’s still March in Chicago. Spring vacation out our way, but I still have to go to work. There was hardly anyone on the train. But this is not what I want to write about.
It appears to me that passion and anger go hand in hand. That sometimes we think someone is whole when they are really broken into so many pieces, they cannot put themselves together again without help.
Yes, I can duct tape my favorite gloves and yes, I can live in a slum apartment (but not with mice and rats) and yes, I can find things to occupy my time—and, yes, sleep is one of them.
I’m not into semantics the way I might have once been.
I’m not dead yet either, though oftentimes I feel dead.
I’m trying. I’ve always been trying. I’ve never stopped trying.
I’m not obsessed about a lot of things either.
I am obsessed with you. I need you to get your full health back. I need you to get your strength back. And not so you can cook for me and clean the house and take care of my needs.
No.
I need you to do these things so you can become the you you want to become.
I am, after all, obsessed with you.
Love always and forever,
Michael
