Wednesday, July 14, 2010

In case you throw my letter away, (and you will).

I've often thought of letters as successful only in two things: expressing sentiment and saying goodbye. This is partly why I've been stymied for pretty much the last two years. Everybody tells me I write eloquently, passionately, powerfully, lovingly. But who am I kidding? Against the weight of my sin against you-- which you can neither forgive nor forget-- any missive of mine, indeed any attempt of mine to reach you is anathema to you and ultimately useless to me.

Letters don't really move people-- how many times have you seen a letter move a government? How many times have you seen a love letter really move people? It hasn't moved you and I have long stopped expecting any future missive to do so.

This isn't my core message. As I write, I'm angry and I'm sad and I don't know how objective I can be despite my best efforts. Stupidity is banging your head on the same wall hoping that the next attempt will not end in bits of broken skull, blood, matted hair and a broken face. When the matter is you, though, I excel at being stupid.

In all my drafts I'd wanted to just say that I loved you, needed you. That I was sorry. And that I do not want to say goodbye. We've seen too much together, done too much together. We've made love forgodssakes, or close enough to it, though I didn't want to call it that before. More than any ache in the loins I feel the loss of you every day.

Concurrent with that feeling of loss, Tin, is an outraged sense of futility, of terrible crippling sadness, the fear that I will never again see your face. Your voice, the smell of your hair, your caresses may belong to someone else now.

I love you. 

I do not want to say goodbye.   

october-december 2009 -january-february 2010

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