it sounds more like a platitude than a prayer. But I do hope you’re well, separated as we are by mile markers and painted roads, oceans, craggy mountain ranges, lonely plains. Well. do you hear the longing in that? the lingering l’s? I wish I knew what you looked like now, though I don’t want you to see me. I’m learning a lot about myself, too much to say or summarize into sentences. I wish I could show you my mind. (I wish I could see my own mind.) I am thankful for borrowed words, for words written online and in journals, in the margins of used books. Thankful for words that resonate, the ones that leave residues inside my heart. (I come back to them.) Thankful for sentiments about silence because I too find myself unable to utter any noise. Understand me. I grow scared to spill words onto pages, each letter like a grain of sand or soot dragged and dropped across the wide expanse of white. The sky, too, is always white here. It’s hard to look up at it and wonder if the sun you see, that lone star, looks the same where you are. And the nights are dark and rainy; there is no moon. I’m growing here, learning here, sharing stories with strangers here. More listening than talking, I think. Speaking in silences… like I do to you. But I hope you’re well. I really do.