Sunday, February 8th, 2015

Dear C, 

Hiding under the covers as I did as a child, I tucked myself below my duvet in my parents' house and fell asleep, the bedside lamp's light still shining, as I did all those years when the ghosts were out to get me.

A klonopin will only do so much to nudge aside memories of the summer we met, the summer I relaxed into your heart and you into mine, the summer we spent in that bed. I grabbed onto my pillow and bit my knuckle to keep from crying as I remembered trailing my finger tip along your eye's lid to fish the fear of falling in love out from inside you. I wanted to teach you how to trust. Your eyes were encumbered, terrified, yet they glistened in all their rawness. How quickly that terror ebbed; how closely we held one another.

How long will your ghost linger with the others in that somber room?

So much for a break from writing; I can't go two days without dangling the memory of our love in front of my eyes, some sort of nasty self-abuse. 

I miss you. Wish you would call. Want to see you on the street, want you to stop for a moment, just long enough to tell you I'm having a really hard time getting by without you. 


I know you're not reading this, but I really wish you were.

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