I think about writing you letters. And the way gutted words may compile on the page if I opened trap doors and let them spill out, trample one another to get to your ears, your eyes first. When I think of what they may say I realize words do not bear enough weight for the ways in which I want to cross this impasse; for how many times have you told me, tell me, you are not in love with me and never loved me and will never love me. And yet I keep pictures of you pinned inside petticoats and gym lockers and rearview mirrors. You asked me to write you once everything froze over for two weeks exactly, and I have been counting the days, hoping the snow sticks in the streets and wondering what truly constitutes as freeze. If a stranger were to ask me who all the great loves in my life were, I would say your name several times. I have begun to believe that often times the very things we find ourselves constantly turning away from are the very same things that turn switches and lights matches within us. Sometimes I wish you and I had more to say in regards to the greater parts of life. And I wonder why I don’t write about you as if it some fault of your own. I know these things rest in my hands and on my laurels, and I am the only one asking the good hard questions. But maybe that’s the issue.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I write because maybe you have felt this way as well. Because none of us truly love or ache alone. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair