It was full of love.
I completely intended to give it to you but
things changed.
I wrote you another letter.
Not so long ago.
It was full of sorrow proclaimed by some anger.
Begging for your empathy.
It put you in my shoes.
You won't [or can't] read my eyes.
So your letter tries to make you see through them.
I don't have the strength to give it to you.
I suppose I'll just leave it be.
Folded up, like my feelings, floating from place to place around my room.
That's where your letter will be.
I composed a letter to you today.
Only in my head.
Actually, I do it quite more often than just today.
I can usually keep a clean slate on my face so you won't be able to read it.
Sometimes, however, you catch a glimpse of it.
I wonder how much of it you've read..
I know you haven't read anywhere near all of it.
It is full of harsh words and vulgar wishes.
If I were to read it aloud to you, we would both end up in a heap of drowning tears on the floor.
Yours , too, would put you in my shoes.
Make you look at you through my eyes.
I wonder, if you can see through my eyes, can you also hear me screaming "BITCH" at the top of my lungs to you inside my head?
Do you then feel the pressure of trying to compress all this?
It's released through your letter in my head.
I thought about writing a letter to you today.
I just sent you a short message telling you I was thinking of you.
Telling you that I shared some of our precious memories with someone else.
Then I went home and cried.
Because you didn't respond.
I want you to hold on to those memories as I do.
I feel like that's not happening.
And because I miss you.
I feel like I need you now more than ever.
I can't tell you that because I don't want to sound like a selfish, spoiled brat.
But in your letter, I tell it all.
In your letter, I'm completely selfish.
I want you.
I guess I'll have to send you your letter soon; so you'll know.
I resisted writing you a letter the other day.
I didn't want to start a fight;
for your letter would have told all.
All about your hypocrisy.
About your stubbornness, your ignorance, your inconsiderateness.
That would have been your letter.
It would have infuriated you.
My fervid words of anger seeping through the letters of my message.
But I retained it.
And since I don't have to deal with you (and your stubborn self wouldn't hear a word of it anyway),
I'll just shrug it off.
I won't waste my time on your letter.
I can't write (either of) you a letter (at all).
For when I write the outline in my head and conjure up the courage to read it to you,
you don't understand it.
You're blind of where I'm coming from.
Our lives being so intertwined makes it all the more difficult.
We end up in tears and more frustration.
We end up only a step ahead of where we began.
Sometimes, we take more steps back than we even attempted at taking forward.
But this is old news, the same ol' rhyme.
The tale as old as time.
Nothing will change with just your letter.
So I'll keep it from you.
But maybe one day,
you'll get your letter and things will be different.
I never thought of writing you a letter.
Not until recently.
So I kind of did.
I miss you in my life.
You're smile, kindness, lightness, everything-is-okay-ness.
I keep getting a picture of a photograph of us holding hands.
Just our hands.
So I guess I don't really know if it's actually yours.
But I feel that it is your hand. And I like that.
Your letter doesn't contain anger.
But it doesn't really contain love.
Maybe underlying love.
I feel like I have that.
It does contain confusion. But not to the point of frustration.
Which is nice. But you're nice. Everything about you is nice.
But it's complicated. On both ends. Facts and feelings.
Maybe I can sort it out in your letter.
I have no idea if you'll ever get it.
But I do want you to have it.
You mean a lot to me.
I'm not sure how I can show that in your letter.
Maybe I'll figure it out.
Maybe your letter will figure us out.
J.
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