I bought this journal for you because I thought you could take it with you. No matter where you go. I thought it could be your start, your beginning. The way into writing down the beauty in your mind. I write poems, dramatic and sad love poems to boys who will never love me back. My writing is just pain and loss, but it helps. It sometimes feels pointless, but it’s not. It lets the ache out.
I thought you could write your heart on these pages, the good and bad, the pretty and ugly, and that it might heal you. Just a little. It’s the Tree of Life, a symbol of growth and prosperity and future and past. I wanted you to touch these pages, and believe in yourself, in the passion, the exquisite tragedy inside you that maybe the world needs to read.
I know we are an impossibility, an image of what could have been, but I will always believe in you, in your incredible presence, your story, your heart. Thank you for holding me when I needed it. Thank you for making me feel again. I will never forget you, Cameron. Never. You are in my heart. Now and always.
I bought him a leather-bound journal for Christmas. He said buying him a gift was risky, and then he got weird. I’m mailing it to him with this message. I know it’s over. I’m just struggling to come to terms with it.