The moon is beautiful tonight — I hope you’re seeing it too.
i still think of you. everyday. i am consumed by you. my thoughts of you are vivid. even now, i’m drunk and stumbling. but when i write and talk and think about you it’s clear. i know i want you. i want you so god damn bad my ribs are breaking. i am breaking. i am finally beginning to realise that maybe you won’t run back; that maybe you won’t realise what a mistake you made. who am i kidding? i made the mistake. i never should have left. i never should have let you out of my grasp. i never should have stopped kissing you. i still think of you.
I’m too scared to talk to you or read anything you’ve written. It all has the potential to break the illusion. It all has the potential to tear holes in my heart.
I sold the lounge today. The brown, cordoroy fold-out lounge that, at one point, was the only piece of furniture we owned. I sold it for $50. I sold the stains from spilled cola cans and tipped bowls of spaghetti. I sold the two months we spent sleeping in alternating big spoons on that lounge. I sold the sweetness that coloured the beginning of our relationship.
You were right about your tattoo. The words resonate with me. I’ve forgotten how your breasts looked in half-light but I remember the words that curved underneath them.
Can you tell me what happens when i run out of ways to combine letters and words? Can you tell me what happens when i think of something that isn’t you?
‘I feel okay without him, although I felt better than okay when he was around. I mean, gosh, I don’t know… I guess I wonder if this, this apathy, is what proper broken feels like. In the movies, the songs and the books they always go through excruciating pain, but they move on. What if this is proper broken? This emptiness, this feeling like something is missing and not quite knowing what to do? So, you just keep going, but, your heart isn’t really in it. It’s somewhere else. It’s not broken, because you haven’t given up, because whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’re still holding onto that distant hope that things will work out. Your heart isn’t broken, it’s with someone else. It won’t break until you’re convinced that person is gone, for good. Or until it finds its way back into your chest, by itself. But until then, you’re missing an entire organ. You’re not complete. You’re completely broken because really isn’t the heart like the engine of a car? Isn’t a car without an engine more broken then a car with a broken fan belt? You know what I mean?’
There are times I think I’m ready to tell you I love you and then there a times, like now, that you disappoint me; like most people do. Often after the disappointment you do something that varnishes over your imperfections and makes you perfect again.
I can’t take your words on face value. I know all too well there is a secretive truth in everything you say. I cannot trust you not to subtlety dismantle me; to not gradually take inches of me home as if were souvenirs. Please, don’t forget to write.
Let’s make love as if we were ghosts. You are sobering like a bucket of ice water in my face or an unexpected pregnancy. Your beauty is like gossamer and i am hard worked hands that cause ruptures on your skin.
Give me a kiss goodnight i haven’t had a good dream in awhile.