Dearest, this is how a picture fades: slowly. That sometimes I forget the importance of a good memory. When we loved each other in the time before photographs, I remember my hands committing to memory the perfect faults of your face, observing which parts of it disappeared first. The nose. I forget how your nose looks. Or your eyes. Your lips, the way you speak. I forget the shape of your chin, the fragility of your neck. There is nothing left to justify your beauty but your hair. I remember still the color of your hair. If only you could yellow elegantly into the past like a photograph, or an important letter. In this letter you sent is your handwriting, dying remnants of your left hand, from the past where we were both less forgetful than we are. Without reading it I smile. In another time I think I am capable of remembering you. I think: Faraway, there is a beautiful woman who is thinking of me. You are beautiful, still, without a doubt. Always beautiful like any flower, any sky: without question, without need for memory. And despite this, what I have learned all these years is that the past is a place that everyone grows tired of. But everyone ends up there in the end. We are old. We will be gone soon. Dust in the ground. And that’s where I’ll find you.