Love isn’t something that can be reduced to a fourteen-line poem. It’s not something that can be shot and spliced to a ninety-minute film under the auspices of any shamelessly consumptive market. What it is, however, is one of those forces - much like gravity and memory - whose ineluctable logic pulls everyone together, pushes them apart, and sets them amid Indian uprisings and their own personal Elysian fields.

I love you, but trying to shove that sentiment into a letter as short as this would be like handing you a Lenape arrowhead and only saying “this is what it used to be like.” 

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