Long Time No See

Dear K,

It’s been a long time—years’ worth of time. I barely remember being the girl who wrote that first letter to you, the letter she’d never send, the confession of love…or something resembling that. I am no longer the person who I was, no longer someone you’d recognize. I think sometimes about when I knew you, when we were friends—or acquaintances at least. What did you think of me then? I know this is a stupid question to ask in another letter that will never be sent, but I desperately want to know. Funny since your opinion on Her wouldn’t be your opinion on Me, still I wonder if you ever wanted Her—the way She wanted you. Who are you now? You must be different. If I’m this different, you must be at least a little different. Which means that the You I’m writing this to is a stranger, and the Me saying these things is a stranger to You.

Intellectually I know that the healthiest thing to do is move on from you, accept this new reality as strangers and let that be that. Why am I so incapable of doing the logical thing when it comes to you? I shouldn’t need to bend the truth in order to satisfy fantasies, and it’s rather ridiculous to need the fantasies anyway. How removed from you do I have to get before these feelings become foreign, or fade for fuck’s sake? I wonder sometimes if it would disturb you, the thoughts I have, the way I feel toward you. I only knew your mask, and you only knew mine, but sometimes the mask is all we get and it still deserves respect, so shouldn’t I assume you’re straight and put limits around myself and my thinking? I can’t be any of the things I thought I could be for somebody: bride, wife, mother. I certainly can’t be the girl that used to like the idea of You liking her body, even though she didn’t. I still don’t like my body, for new reasons now, reasons that most likely wouldn’t make sense to you.

I hate my life. I feel so alone and lost and fucking hopeless. How can one be so hollow and yet full of so much pain at the same time? I don’t know how your life has been, I doubt you’d be able to understand, and yet…I wish that you could, wish that I could talk about it with you. My memory of you is so hazy, but I think you made me feel good or better or whatever. How often does that happen? How often do you find someone that calms the storm raging in your head? I doubt it’s often, though I don’t think you could calm this storm now if your life depended on it.

Pictures don’t represent you well; I shouldn’t be looking at them anyway but they don’t capture your “you-ness” that used to be so infectious. My eyes used to automatically find you when I’d walk into a room. You, were like a fucking magnet. I miss you. Is that allowed? Probably not. We didn’t know each other all that well, nor did I know myself very well. I didn’t even notice you before junior year; I’m sure you were the same. What was different about that year, just having a class together? Why did 100s of millions of moments pass us by and we didn’t see each other until then? Why couldn’t we have just gone on that way—passing each other by? I didn’t need to know you; I certainly don’t think it would have changed my life much except I might still be stuck on Garret (but there’s more to that story).

I don’t know. Maybe I just wouldn’t care that much. Maybe this would be easier. All I know is that if we had never met, I never would have fallen for you. It would be better that way, I think. It would be easier to move on if there wasn’t a part of me that goes back to You, that wants You, that fills in the space with You. Fuck You. I can't decide if I want you in my life or if I hate you for existing. I waiver back and forth, but you did as well, didn’t you? Because there’s no platonic explanation for all of your behavior. It couldn’t all be in my head, all my own misinterpretation. Does it matter? No, I wouldn’t think so.

I saw Viv’s truck when I was living at the park (that’s a great sentence for ya). She hadn’t painted over your invitation to prom yet. She asked you. I always though that you asked her, that you chose her. Why does it matter that she chose you and all you did was say yes? You still said yes…right? That means that you wanted to go out with her. It doesn’t mean that there was anything more between us. If there were, you would have said no…wouldn’t you? I had worked so hard on the picture, painted you a pursuer, painted her the prize, told myself to believe that the spark between us was felt only by me. Strange how one little piece of information can spread like a crack in the foundation I built my opinions on.

Why did you stop talking to me? I thought that I was doing well hiding my feelings; I don’t understand why we couldn’t keep talking. Did I just not matter that much? Was it more important to me than it was to you? I won’t speculate that you were scared or that you just had to get some distance between you and me, though I wish it were something like that and not that you just didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I wish I could talk to you now, even to just laugh. Why don’t you send me funny things anymore? Why don’t you make fun of me anymore? We could’ve kept doing that couldn’t we? We could’ve been friends or friend-ly. I liked being friends with you, or whatever it was We were.

I shouldn't try but I can’t seem to figure out your type, though I don’t want to type-cast the girls you like. I do my best not to judge, but the way June broke up with you never sat well with me, even though everyone loves her. What was she really like? What was Sasha like? Why her next? That one I know you picked. Did you love her? How long were you in the process of breaking up? Would you go back to her now? How would I know. Did you know I always thought your dad was a narcissistic prick; is he still? Sorry, that’s impolite, though I thought you were gonna be a grade-A asshole after I met your dad so you should probably pay attention to that. I don’t think you are though, an asshole…well maybe a little bit.

I’ll do my best to unravel these feelings, figure out which bulb is shorting out the rest of the strand. Maybe if I can figure out what turns this on, I can turn it off. On/off: just a little switch, but a switch I desperately need. I’d like to bury you deep in my memory, layer experiences on top of these which I’ve felt so intensely. I’d like write poetry that doesn’t have anything to do with you. I’d like to never write another of these letters to you again—another letter you’ll never read, another letter that leaves me with more questions than answers and more feelings than relief. Who do I have to sell my soul to, to leave you behind? If you know, can you give me their number?

With love or something,

JD