One more thing.
I know I talk a lot about love. Sorry.
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
