Earlier this week, I asked for feedback on your favorite posts that I have written. I was planning on mailing a letter and a poem to the person for whom I write all of my poems. I’ve since changed my mind. I do appreciate the feedback on which pieces you have enjoyed the most, and as a consolation prize for me not having the courage to actually send the letter, I will publish it here instead. I always wonder how it would feel to receive a letter like this. I’ve sent similar ones to him in the past, and he once told me that they meant the world to him, that he had kept every one. I wonder how it would feel for him to actually send one to me….
Anyway, here is the sad, tormented, ridiculous letter that will never find its way to his fingers.
First off, I missed you so I Googled you like one is want to do in times of weakness. This is how I found this address which means you’re in Tampa (if you are still staying close to your family). My dad’s cousin lives near Tampa. They grew up there together. I can picture him as a child, running along the shores of the Gulf Coast under a bright blue sky. I imagine the two of them jumping into the waves and scrambling for shells and sea glass. I remember you mentioning that your sister lives in Tampa, so maybe you do too. Maybe I’m an idiot (like I’ve always been) and you are tearing up my words and cursing me under your breath.
And, yet, I still write and ramble on and on when I do. Perhaps I should get to the point which is maybe less clear than it should be. Over the years, I have come to realize that you never loved me the way I loved you. That the moments we spent together were just that—time passing until the next moment arrives. I know that you did love me, but maybe not in the way I still need. I have come to understand that you are my air and my strength but that I am no more than a past experience you have all but forgotten. Maybe I’m wrong, that somewhere inside your heart, in the inner most recesses, your love smolders in the dark waiting for permission to reignite. Perhaps this is the reason you won’t say my name or answer my words. You told me once that it was wrong for you to talk to me because of my relationship. Perhaps your love is still there and you are just waiting for me to find the courage to come to you once again.
I expect that soon after you receive this letter, I will get an angry FB message, but knowing you, I’ll probably receive more vacant and infuriating silence. I used to think silence was better than a page full of scathing words about how you never loved me, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe your hatred would at least leave me with an answer. Then I could try to move on…maybe.
Did you know that I can’t find inspiration for my writing without you? That seems strange to say, but it is so much the truth. I have so many words—you know that’s true—but they don’t feel alive without your breath, your visage standing behind them and holding them up. Is it strange for you to know that my memory of you has the power to shift, shape, fold me up into a tiny piece of myself and then to expand my heart into infinity by the words I scribe in your honor? Is this how artists feel when they find their true muse? You are my characters in my novels, the object of my poetry, the fodder for my dreams. You are the only one who gets my words; I give them to no one else.
I have this blog where I anonymously pour out this lingering longing that is housed in my bones. One of my posts was even published on the site’s page. They felt my words about how it felt to leave you. Almost two thousand people read my words, these lines I write so that I can stop feeling like I lost a part of myself when I lost all the pieces of you. I write as if you are gone, love letters to a ghost, because I know you will never read them. You might deem me even crazier if you did. I’ve enclosed one of my broken poems ripped from my torn heart. Know that every word is yours, that ever letter was scratched out in honor of you or at least in honor of my trying to forget you.
But I don’t want you to forget me. Don’t forget that I am always waiting. Don’t forget that no one could ever love all of your shattered pieces in the way that I do. Don’t forget that I crave to put you back together as long as you promise to include all of my pieces too.