“Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?” *
I had come to perform a ritual; to say goodbye to you in my own way. I had been raised to believe the words of the service—for better, for worse—but I had not imagined how bad the worse bit could get. I had written down my final words. I was going to burn them and allow myself to be taken away with the smoke. But then you appeared in the window and I wasn’t expecting to see your face. Even in profile, you looked beautiful; because every writer looks beautiful when they are bent over the page. I saw your hand moving. I saw your hand stop. I saw your hand hold up your head. I saw you close your eyes. I saw the smoke of your cigarette curling close to your face, touching the edge of your eyelashes. And this was too much for me . . . How could I return to my life? What I remember is walking through the dark streets. Walking through my dark door. Walking into my dark kitchen. Then bending into that dark square. And hearing the sound of a black ocean. As my breath slowed, each wave filled my body. Then everything went black.
And so, yes, I did appear at your window. But no, I did not tap.
* from Ted Hughes’s poem “Last Letter”