Dear You

Dear You,

I saw you at the store today,

December 15, 2020.

The last time I saw you in person was

June 5, 2018.

Two years and seven months,

31 months,

921 days in total.

Two and a half years.

Two and a half years and I’m still thinking of you,

can’t banish you from my thoughts

no matter how hard I try.

You were wearing a black sweatshirt,

with a blue design on the front,

though I didn’t get a good look at it,

difficult to observe someone

while also desperately trying to avoid them;

your hair,

blonde as always,

was cut short,

shorter than I prefer,

but your eyes were just as blue as I remember.

I’m so far from the girl you thought I was,

when I thought I was a girl too,

but you make me feel exactly the same,

and all the desire…

and the pain

rushes in,

a wound as fresh as first drawn blood.

Panic attacks

and jelly legs at the sight of you,

delirious with hunger

and fear.

You seemed taller even if you weren’t,

though it might have been

that I felt shorter,

and I wanted to be seen differently by you

than I did at 17,

when I thought I was a girl,

and thought you should treat me like one.

But I prayed that you wouldn’t see me at all:

differently,

or otherwise.

Your shoulders seemed broader—

more filled out,

and your arms looked strong,

the whole of you a little more

muscular,

grown up,

less of the boy I knew

and more of

a man.

Are you the kind of man

I should be afraid of—

leery of?

If you actually cared for me

would you ask me to be

“your woman?”

And what would you do if I said

“I can’t

I’m not one”

Why is it—

that despite the panic raging in my veins,

despite the racing of my heart

past a beat

that was already too fast,

despite the fact that seeing you makes me

THIS miserable,

I still ache to be closer,

and even though the sight of you is agony

I could look at you for hours?

Nearly three years and you still have me

so fucked up,

clutched in the grasp

of the most confusing feelings

I’ve ever suffered—

the most persistent love

I’ve ever been victim of.

I don’t want you.

If I say that enough

will it be true?

You can’t be

a fantasy

and a real person too.

I can’t miss you

and hope I never see you again,

but both those things are true.

I do miss you.

I miss the warmth that used to fill my chest

when I was with you…

and I also wish I could forget you.

Memories become so muddled

over time,

over distance,

just water color impressions

of what actually happened,

romanticized pastel ripples,

blurring the image

past recognition

These things that mattered

so much,

but maybe they matter more now,

too much now.

Have I just gotten more deeply invested—

the further I’ve drifted?

Am I my own end in the making?

How do I escape

these feelings?

Why are You—

and all the feelings that come

with You

so damn tempting?

Why can’t I put it all away in a box,

and put the box on a shelf,

in a closet

I never get into,

with a door I can lock,

and a key

I can throw in a lake?

I just want to put it

all

away.

I’ve thought I’ve seen you

too many times before.

A flash of blonde hair,

and a profile

that could be yours

and I can

barely breathe,

barely move,

barely think

over my thundering heart.

It’s all I can do

to keep my head turned forward,

eyes focused on a sign

I’ve already re-read a million times

in the last minute

and one part of me wishes—

more than anything—

that I could just turn around

and see a stranger.

But if I’m being honest,

I always morbidly hope

it’s you

And I’d be lying

if I said I didn’t try to catch a glimpse

through the window of that café,

or make another loop around the block,

when I thought I saw you on the corner.

But it was always just an apparition

that I felt so stupid for chasing.

Today was just

a really shitty day for this to happen,

though I would have said that

yesterday

or the day before.

Honestly,

this hasn’t been my year

or two;

so the past few years

have pretty much destroyed me.

And of all the things

I’ve unlearned about myself,

I can’t unlearn you,

can’t erase

the way I feel about you,

and even if I couldn’t remember you

you’d still be there,

haunting me.

I wonder though

what I really know about you,

if anything,

and I wonder if you are playing a game,

and how much you care what other people think,

and I wonder if like my father—

you are secretly a monster

…but I don’t think so,

and I think I’m naïve to believe in you,

to believe in a heart that isn’t mine.

I don’t trust you though—

as I don’t trust anyone—

and even if you didn’t know it

you’ve hurt me before;

you could again.

I don’t want you anyway.

If I say that

enough

will it be true?