Prologue
Prologue
July 2nd, 1985
Seattle, Washington
Handwritten.Never sent.
Hey,Kit,
I don’t know what I’m hoping this letter will fix.Maybe I just need to say something to you, even if you never read it.You’re probably in the studio or maybe the music room.Tuning that antique cello, still mad at me for ...no, actually, you still hate me for what happened three weeks ago ...I’m fucking sorry, K.I was too drunk, and it was too ...
Nothing I say will fix it because you don’t want to talk to me.I’m so fucking sorry.
I’m sitting here in this almost empty place, pretending it doesn’t matter that you haven’t called.But it really does.It fucking matters.I miss sitting beside you, saying nothing.Just breathing near you.Listening to that sound you make when you’re focused—like you’re trying to hum the whole world back into tune.Like every note is stuck between your throat and your heart, and you’re the only one who knows how to set it free.
We leave for L.A.in two days.The contract’s signed.Dead Moth Parade is finally going big.I keep thinking that should be enough.I should be happy.I should be celebrating.
But it’s not the same without you.
You said I could use those songs, and, yeah, you gave them to me.But now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel right.Not without your name on the setlist.Not without your sound threaded next to mine.
I keep wondering if you’d come with me if I asked.And worse—why haven’t I asked?
I keep wondering if you’ll ever forgive me or if I’ve fucked this up beyond repair.
The truth is, I’m scared.Not of failing.I’ve been failing for years.
I’m scared of making it.
Standing under a thousand lights, singing your songs in front of the world, and still feeling like I left something vital behind.
Like I leftyoubehind, and how am I supposed to survive without my everything?
You once told me that music says the things we’re too afraid to speak out loud.
Maybe that’s what you are to me.My truth.The chorus I keep returning to.
The song I haven’t figured out how to play without breaking something in the process.
I’ll write.I swear I will.Even if I never send those letters.Even if you never write back.Even if they’re just lyrics whispered into the void—love letters to the world, hoping they’ll reach you.
Fucking love you.
R
P.S.I still have your favorite scarf.I’m not giving it back.Doesn’t smell like you anymore, but I keep wearing it like it does.
P.P.S.Working on new lyrics.What do you think?
You were June in a world gone gray,
A velvet hush I let slip away.
Skin and strings, breath and bite,
One kiss burned through every night.
