Letters into Emails 

Dear Johnny, 

Once, I tried to write about how I felt when I was with you, how it feels to miss you. That’s a lie. I didn’t write about it once. I write about more often than you’d like to know, to be honest, but I did write about it once where it felt more significant. I guess I’m going to tell you about it now even though you probably aren’t reading these emails. They’re probably getting stale inside a forgotten inbox just like my old letters you once kept. 

Anyway, as I was saying. I started this anonymous blog a long time ago. I started it for you, if we’re being honest, so that I could just try to figure out why the hell I’m still so hung up. I did it anonymously because I know I’m a terrible person for still being in love with you while being married. And I do realize that is likely why you won’t speak to me, but, regardless, I kept the blog anonymous. Anyway, I responded to one of the site’s daily prompts because I was stuck. I never really saw myself as a writer and it isn’t even true, what I wrote. Not really. You see, I wanted to write something that could make me feel how I felt when I was with you, to give readers the same feeling. So, I embellished. 

Do you remember the last day? The one where we drove down the coast? I remember music and wind and ocean and your voice. So when I wrote that one time, I tried to capture that day. I want so badly for you to read it, to see if it feels right because, here’s the thing, the site published it to their page. Essentially, thousands of people read it and told me how much it made them ache because it makes me ache for you. Still. Every word bleeds my longing, and hearing people’s reactions to my words, to my expression made me wonder if I am a writer. Like an actual one. Not just because I post sappy yet true poetry to an anonymous blog. That maybe the pain I have, the sorrow I feel when I think of you, that maybe it could help people find the way out even if I never could. 

I know you won’t read this and if you do, you won’t write back. I think I say this every time. Who knows? You’ve probably blocked me again somehow and all of this is moot. But I’d like to think you’re saving these like you did my hand-written ones, that you take them out and read my words and miss me the way I miss you. 

I probably shouldn’t send this, probably should give up, but I’m stupid and I can’t just stop needing you. I’m sorry for everything. I can’t help who I am. I’ve tried to change, be different, but it never works. I am a fucking disaster. Truly. And I keep telling myself that what I have is enough because it’s fine, good even, but it’s not you. No one has ever been you. And I don’t know how to stop comparing, to stop picturing or remembering how it felt to love you, to be loved by you. And I know I don’t know you anymore, that who I imagine only existed for those few weeks, that we are both so separated from who we were together. But I just keep wondering of that matters because whoever you are, how ever you’ve changed, I will always want you. Even when its fruitless. 

Ok. I started this because I wanted you to read something. Maybe I’ll send it next time. I miss you and I’m sorry for who I am. I know you wish I’d stop. I’ll keep trying to forget like you said we should do. 

***

I wrote this as an email and decided to post it instead of send it. Maybe I’ll still send it. Idk. Here’s the piece I’m referring to if you are so inclined. 

~Patience

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