I've started this letter to you over and over again.
I doubt it will ever reach you, but nonetheless sometimes we must send these missives out into the world regardless——like birthday wishes, or letters to Santa; trusting that somehow, the sentiments will reach the party regardless.
I also realized that I don't know where you live.
That's probably best, seeing as I might have shown up at your doorstep a few times bearing my blood to you. And no, NOT in a romantic way——but in a 'Law and Order,' old-testament-y, creepy stalker, institutionalizing way; a way that would have probably alarmed even your pets… casual.
The point is there was nowhere to send a letter to.
So. This is the result.
I wrestle with the urge to share it all.
Every. single. night.
What do I say?
Glasgow was soul-rocking. I came alive again.
I swam in the Pacific ocean a week later despite it being 48 degrees in Venice.
I lost my voice—in every way.
I dyed my hair.
Oh, and we’ve made some beautiful art at school recently—
The Seagull was a dream.
So was Spoon River.
The Greeks are proving to be exhilarating (we’re doing Metamorphoses and Oedipus at Colonus——both so gorgeous and human), ...And one day after class, alone in what felt like an almost holy circle of teacher-student, center-of-the-universe intimacy, Zack played me two songs on his guitar with such calm intensity I thought my heart would crack in two...
He had no idea how much I needed it.
Or perhaps he did.
Regardless, I don’t think I'll forget that moment as long as I live.
today I bought a homeless man a cup of coffee and stuck around to drink it with him.
He just wanted some coffee.
But mostly to talk.
...Which is of course, all I long for too.
To talk——really talk——as we did.
To laugh so thoroughly and from-the-gut, the cells quake.
I ache for it.
Ache to tell you all of this and more.
To have my mind held in the palm of your own.
To luxuriate in the exquisite torment of being truly seen as clearly as I was by you.
I've had dinner with others.
Sometimes more than dinner.
I play the role but wilt within...
None of them are you.
And sure, I'll admit, I'm embarrassed by how cliché this all is.
The blonde cheerleader taking a selfie while drinking a smoothie——
The cat-meme of unsent letters.
But, fuck it.
Your love has ruined me.
And mine for you has metastasized within my body like some kind of ancient sickness——I feel you in my muscles, infiltrating each vessel of blood and intake of breath down to my marrow...
I want to smother you.
Perhaps it all went a little too far.
And I still love, I regret to say.
A love unrelenting and juvenile in its intensity.
And I still love.