Dear You,

every forty days or so (or exactly), i call my voicemail to check a message that usually comes from my dad,-- because he's one of the few people/institutions that doesn't understand that i don't like getting voicemails-- and i'm bombarded with a series of numbers and subsequent recordings that are so familiar to me but alien to my life.

i know it's really weird that i still have all the voice mails you ever left me saved. not that there are that many, i haven't counted but there's about eight, i guess, maybe ten. which is hard to believe since i've reduced our interractions down to those voicemails, and the rest i guess i imagined.

it's funny to know that that voice is the one that i'm writing to. or to listen hard enough that i can try to hear your thoughts: in one you were driving home, that's all you really said, and then "hold on: cop." and i wonder if there really was a cop, or if it's your passive way of changing your mind. mostly, i think they're adorable.

i think about deleting them everytime i hear one, but usually i hang up the phone, or save them before i actually listen to them, cause it's always kinda spooky, which, i remembered, you said in one. "call me back. in the second instance. it's, uh, it's gonna be a little sooky for me. gooooodbyeyeyey." and you shake your voice in a spooky kind of way. and then when i do ever talk to you again you tell me you talked to God, which i don't dispute with my atheism because i know the feeling.

maybe i'll find you some day.