a letter

One more thing.

I know I talk a lot about love. Sorry.  I just have to get this off my chest, and I promise, then I'll be done.

I don’t know if I can handle the blog posts, or waking up Monday morning to new stories and ellipses instead of periods. I’m starting to think you don’t use periods because you don’t like when something ends. So while you paint your life I can’t seem to fit in a breath and I might be starting to suffocate. I don’t know if I can handle the comments that I have to ignore because they’re always about me, aren’t they?

The first night I said you were an equation. Y=mx+b and I was just the variable that would be different next week. I was confused, you were angry and we were both falling in love.

I could reminisce about how we met, how we wrote letters even before you left, how we talked on the phone for hours, and how we fell more than in love. But you and I both have written more about that than anything else combined. I never can seem to write about anyone else. And I can prove that with the binders full of pages that lean against my closet. But this isn’t a love letter, it never was.

This one, right here, is a letter about how you left. It’s going to be full of breaths you weren’t part of and spaces you can’t fill with love, no matter how many ways you try to write eternity into them.

Here I’ve made us sound easy, simple. But we were never an equation, darling. Because you were never good at calculus, and I was never good at keeping you focused on solving differential equations.

In the last 335 days, I found the derivative and it’s always been x, hasn’t it. I can’t figure out if its destiny or irony because isn’t x the variable that always changes? You’re convinced it’s me and I’m convinced it’s you. While you were knocking on doors, I was filling the nights with tears and dearelders. So maybe we were both right.

I just want you to know we proved everyone wrong, because we proved high school love is important. And that it might not mean as much as the psychology final on Friday or the black light dance on Saturday but maybe they just say that because it’s one of the few things that can turn into a future I already regret. But we proved them wrong.

I want you to know I laughed when I read what you wrote on your blog. And it wasn’t because I heartless or because I’ve turned crazy. I laughed when you called me a whore because remember when he called me that? And you just told me to remember who was saying it. Now I’m remembering it’s only you, and so it doesn’t mean anything.

I want you to know I think I'll always love you but its past time to store our letters in boxes, because they aren’t writing themselves and they’re filled with more problems than solutions. And like I said, you were never that good at school, were you?

I’m not mad, I promise. I just wish I knew how to write about anything except you.

Once again, all of me, Auburn