I Am Made of Letters

Dear Johnny,

I can’t talk about you without crying. I once heard that you will know you’re over something when you can talk about it without crying. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen your face, touched your skin, felt your breath on my neck, your lips wandering down my spine. And I still cry. Every time.

I told my therapist about you the other day, and I cried. I didn’t cry when I told her about my dad or my problems with my husband. I cried the moment your name touched my tongue, and I still miss you. Even after so long, all the years, it still feels like I had you yesterday, that you were mine only yesterday. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to forget, to stop crying? 

I still have this letter. I carry it around in my purse. I wrote it in July. It has your name on it, but I can’t send it because what if it’s not right? What if these words are still not right? And I can’t bear your silence again. It’s already so loud that it fills my every thought. I tell you, I’ve told you, but nothing matters. No words matter enough to make you see how much I love you, how much I’m willing to give up if you’ll only love me back. Which is crazy because I know you love me back. I know. And people probably think that’s crazy too, but sometimes you just know something, and I know you love me from the deepest parts of your heart. I know that I’m who you think of on dark nights where loneliness seems more alive than you do. I know you remember every minute because you told me you did, and I’m not so easy to forget. But none of that matters because we are weak, and I talk too much and you’ve lost your voice, so here we are.

God, I’m so fucking sad. No wonder you don’t want to talk to me, to deal with me. I’m a fucking disaster. And all I do is cry.





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