Dear Henrietta, There Are Beautiful Ghosts in Our Flesh

I saw the spark in you, and you lit me up.

Photo by cottonbro studio via Pexels

Dear Henrietta,

You’re stunning, and you don’t even realize it.

I’ve been watching you for a long time. I didn’t realize someone so beautiful could exist. I wasn’t your fantasy — I didn’t think I ever would be — but I admired your wit and your heart. It didn’t matter to me what you looked like. I saw your soul — something everyone else seemed keen to forget.

If I had my way, you never would have suffered. Maybe that’s why I hate the idea of God. Maybe that’s why I stopped praying. Maybe that’s why I started believing in myself first and foremost.

I wrote books you never read. I wrote songs you cast aside. I wrote so many things — all for you — but I don’t think you ever looked at any of them. Or, at least, you’ve never said. I still crave to know you in all your shades.

I write my fantasies, it’s true, but I wouldn’t force you into anything. That’s not who I am. Even if we never meet, I’ll always know you were my north star — the true one, the real one, the one that would never die.

I don’t play games because I like them. I play games as a method to survive. Even all the way back then, I was scheming my way through life. No one…