Every time I start a letter to you, I'm torn between saying, "Hello my friend," and, "I love you so much I can't stand it."
I want to use every bit of skill I have to write words so beautiful that you'll love me again.
But then I remember that if you did love me, it would only make you hurt as much as I do; loving you, and not having you.
Because I pushed you away once, and you found someone else.
You did not wait for me.
You didn't know I was waiting for you.
Now, you're not free for me, and I am not free of you.
I want to tell you that I'll wait for you. That no matter how long it takes, if you'll come to me, I'll wait.
Or even if you never come, if you are never free, I'll spend my time, at least, with hope that you might come to me.
I want to tell you that I'm here for you.
Praying for your happiness.
But on the page I write that I'm doing fine, and it's cooler here, today.
I imagine me, when I'm old, with wrinkled skin and blue veins and white hair, looking out of the same eyes that first saw you, and fell in love with you.
And seeing you coming to me, walking out of the sun.
As fast as it took for my heart to beat, as fast as it took for me to take a breath, that's all it took for my life to change.
I started loving you that quick. That instant.
Every time I start a letter to you, I want to tell you that.
I want to beg you to love me, again.
I half-believe you do. But I want to beg you to say the words one more time.
But you would never. Because that's not the man I know you to be.
And I would never. Because that's not the woman I pray I can be.
I fight myself to keep from telling you that I think of you every day.
That I listen to songs that played on the radio as we made love in your bed, in your room.
I want to tell you that I remember lying with you after, my head on your shoulder, my hand on your heart, listening to your voice vibrate through me as you spoke.
You told me you loved me.
Both of us together.
Instead, I ask you how your day's been.
I struggle not to tell you that hearing a song makes me think of you, seeing a love scene makes me think of you.
Breathing makes me think of you.
But because it would hurt you and make you sad to know that I'm hurting for you, I send you a link to a funny website, instead, and I forward the latest joke I've read.
Did your dreams come true for you?
Most of mine did, except for you.
My dream of you.
My dream of me and you.
Us, floating on a blanket under the trees, with the rain sprinkles falling on my back.
I tried to listen to one of 'our songs' today. I thought I was ready.
I thought I could hear it and not miss you so much that my heart breaks. But I was wrong; I'm not ready to hear it, yet.
There've been too many long years since then of missing you.
In your letter, I ask you if you've seen the latest movie, though I want to say that I remember how we made love, and missed those movies the first time around.
I remind you to send me pictures of your family, when all I want to see is you.
You looking at me the way you used to.
I forget things I heard yesterday, while my memories of you are as vivid and as real as my own skin.
I can still touch my lips and feel how they felt against your skin.
I remember how the light reflected off the pillow above my head, and reflected onto your face, as you lay on top of me, making love to me.
Arms around me, legs between mine, pushing.
Pushing into me.
Into my body, into my heart, into my life forever.
Always, just enough.
When I start a letter to you I don't write these things because I know your heart is pulled toward me, and it wouldn't be fair, or kind, to the life you've built yourself now.
So I will say here, "I love you. I've always loved you.
I will always be yours, even if you never claim me.
I will never marry, unless it's to you.
I will be true to you, even as you lay in another woman's bed.
You and I both made that bed.
Now you have to sleep in it, and I have to sleep alone."
That's what I struggle not to write, every time I start a letter to you.
Instead I will write to you,
"Dear Friend, I hope you're doing well."