Dear Del

by waxnwings

Dear Del

It takes delving into a drawer of old letters to realise that in precisely four months and eight days time we will have spent an entire span of five years together; five inseparable years having traveled house to house, village to village, town to town, city to city, country to country, the continents and imagination beyond.

But I have also come to realise that sometime (and quite possibly in the near future) this is going to end. And I feel guilt for that, Del, guilty as hell because I know that there’s simply nothing that you can do to persuade me otherwise. You can’t possibly even try.

If you could admit anything, we would both know that it is always going to be my decision.

But you don’t need to. Right now, you’re making me feel sick. Sick with myself because I’m looking straight at you and, as always, you are silence. Simple. Silence.

Still glowing.
Glowing in the silence which is all there has ever been.

I see the marks I have inscribed on you, I can see my name, the age and the imperfections, I know what you’re capable of and I know when you need patience and when you’re simply being stubborn. 

But I have to be straight with you, Del.

You’re getting old. And that’s the nice way of saying “you are old”.

Five years is a long, long time to still hold the number-one spot. And I’m going to drill down to brass tacks and say that by all practicality you are, by today’s standards, considered somewhat on the larger side of the spectrum. I’m not one to feel self-conscious, not least on behalf of others, but even my best friends have commented: “heavy set”, they said, “huge” even. How do you think this makes me feel?

Silence.

This feels like a one way road. I need something back, Del, something other than simply what I put in. INTERACT WITH ME DEL!!

Wake up.

You.

You with your blinking webcam. You don’t even recognise it anymore.
Your novelty fingerprint reader.
Left click stuck.
Fascia peeling back;
oversized nine-cell lithium-ion.

And yet you’re still a god damned character, Del. You’ve become a character.

My character.
God damn you Dell. Almost five years and you’re still as lively as a headless chicken.

You will always be the best. 
I may even keep your corpse.

I love you, man.

 

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