Last night I had a dream you killed yourself.

You left an answering machine message, very matter-of-fact. "I don't want to deal with it anymore. I'm going to kill myself." It wasn't even to me; it was a generic message you'd sent out like obligatory Christmas cards. I thought that was rather selfish of you.

In my dream, I could not cry. But the grief of it was enough to wake me up. It took me a few minutes to persuade myself it wasn't true.

I worry about this consciously, too. Perhaps irrationally. I hope irrationally. I worry about you killing yourself and never knowing.

I will never forget. I will never grow indifferent. I will always love you: I wish you knew, and if you do, I wish it mattered.

Will we speak again in five years? I'll be there in two. I will never be angry for what's been done; there is no time for that. Will you be angry? I tell you it will be wrong. We killed those selves so long ago.

How many suicides without ever telling the other? And yet we knew. You'd think I'd grow accustomed to the rules I devised.

You know I would pray for you if either one of us believed in that shit.