Saturday, April 25, 2009

A Letter I Will Never Mail

Dear ___,
I just ate half a bag of spinach and thought of you. Not because you especially like spinach, but because if you were here we would have gone out for a real meal, somewhere.
I know that it’s been months- and months, and months, and months!- but still, I have not grown accustomed to you not being here. I want you around to check and balance me, to tell me I’m dumb and to give me praise in the moments in which it’s deserved. I miss your creativity, your passivity and your back massages. Though they weren’t in any way erotic, I loved having you touch me. You’re the only person other than my mother to clasp the contour of my waist, to feel each of the ridges in my vertebra and the curve of my neck in a very long, long time. I miss that touch, your touch.
And it wasn’t just your touch, but also your gaze and, more importantly, your admiration that I miss most. I love you as a flower blossoms: I slowly open as you shine upon me. Eventually, together, we make something beautiful, like tree branches against an intense blue sky or, more accurately (perhaps), flower pedals in a bed of wet dirt. It’s a shame that we’re both so practical, that both of us hate to waste time. And oh, my God! ____, how I wish you weren’t an atheist. For I imagine us living in a Howard Roark-esque home, lying beside one another on modern furniture and eating organic ice cream until we’re 100 years old, together. We wouldn’t hinder our relationship with words of unhappiness, we would simply endure, together, forever.
Like a forest.
Remember, _____, that I am, to an extent, forever yours.
I usually love you,

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