She’s turned invisible and leaves a trail of post it notes telling me that she is in the room with me. OVER HERE. Maybe she is not invisible. Maybe she is five minutes ahead of me.PICK UP MORE CAT FOOD. Or maybe I am five minutes behind her. She wrote a note in kitchen above the sink. It read HERE I AM. I spread out my hands and tried to find her, but the air was empty. She splashed water on the floor of the bathroom from the tub. SORRY, I DID THAT. I sometimes wake up naked in the mornings. WE FUCKED. I tried to drink more caffeine, thinking that if I sped up my body I could catch up to her. Maybe she is not invisible. Maybe we’ve split into separate dimensions. I LOVE YOU. I leave to drive to work. On the steering wheel, DRIVE TO THE OCEAN. I do so. Later that day after I’ve figured that I’ve lost my job and the ocean hasn’t done anything to bring her back into view I sit on the beach. ISN’T IT BEAUTIFUL? Yes, it is. I write in the sand.

Chad Redden
Dear Dead Person
Benjamin Weissman