I have these weird moments where I try to reconcile who I am now with who I was in the past. Like…I’m trying to find her in me or me in her…if that makes sense.
I do the same thing with other people too. Like you. I didn’t really know you then, only my perception of you, and even though you’ve been inside me, I still don’t know you. Not really. And you don’t know me. Not really. And the fucked up part is that I really want to know you, but I have no idea if you really want to know me. Because I’m not a good person. I’m not worthy of you and the happiness I feel when I’m with you.
And this is the worst timing. All of this. God do I know it’s the wrong timing.
I just really want to know that sad, angry boy who used to sit behind me in algebra. I want to know the man who makes me pancakes and kisses my shoulder when he thinks I’m asleep.
These are the things I think about.
I’m telling them to you because otherwise I’ll just turn it all to poetry. Like you asked me. If I was going to write a poem. I did. Two poems. Two sad, ridiculous, stupid poems because you and all your tragic brokenness are stuck inside me and as much as I try, I can’t seem to shake loose.
I know you’re probably reading this early in the morning or the middle of the night. I’m sorry to bombard you. I guess I’m too old to not just say what I feel, and this is how I feel. As stupid and inappropriate and selfish as it may be. I just want your arms around me.
I wrote this to a man I think I might want to love, a man I think could change me, but I’m afraid to send it.