I want my words to matter. The only thing I’ve ever tried to do is make people really hear me. But, the only person I want to listen is you. I wonder what you’ve thought about the words I’ve sent to you. You told me once that you kept all of my letters. I sent you a letter every two weeks for two years. I imagine a bundle of letters tied with twine. But, that’s not what they look like. They are probably shoved in a shoebox hidden in the dark recesses of your closet. That’s if they really exist. If they do, those letters prove my words mattered to you.
Isn’t it interesting how we want to know what others are thinking yet finding out the truth usually ends up being the last thing we want to hear? I wonder if I will be one of those statistics. One of those numbers of women who find themselves wallowing in salty tears because the love of her life doesn’t love her back. If this were the movies, things would go my way.
After ten long years, she doesn’t know she is about to see him once more. She steps out the door fumbling for her car keys and hurrying across the parking lot. She looks up to search for her car when her eyes land on him. He’s leaning against his car, his white t-shirt clinging to his strong arms. Brown eyes stare at her. Lips turn up in a smile. She can’t quite understand what she’s seeing, but she recognizes the tingles that shoot through her body as his eyes search every part of her. She runs to him, dropping her purse and keys which are forgotten in her desperate run to be in his arms. He grabs her and envelopes her in the embrace she’s been longing for, and she knows that this is happiness.
But, we aren’t in a movie, are we? It’s more like this:
She waits endlessly through all the years of her life for him to find her. She lives through a marriage that is not without love but lacks the passion and fever that she so desires. She dies, her love unrequited and his face burned into her mind.
This is what I am–a vessel for words to you. My imaginings, my dreams, my desires all stem from this irrational need to love you. And I can’t keep it inside anymore. Maybe that’s why I write now. I know you will never see this–I know if you did that it wouldn’t matter.
Why is it that we can’t tell each other the truth? Why we can’t even tell ourselves the truth? I know I love you and you know I love you (I’ve told you enough over the past 11 years), and you kept my letters. Toted them around in a worn shoebox for 11 years. They meant so much that your family found them and told you to write me. So, maybe that means you love me too. That you never stopped, and that you can’t face the truth.