story in the form of a love letter
This is because I love you and have not written you one of those love letters in months and months. I’m sorry. I know that’s not the most conventional way to start a love letter but I’m not sure what else to say. I’m sorry I loved him more than you, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring myself to leave you. I realize now—I’m probably too late. I can picture you in an apartment in New York or London (you always hated Vermont and wanted to get out of here as soon as we graduated), without children (you always hated children), and a husband—he’ll cook and clean for you like you know I never would have and maybe just maybe you’ll think of me sometimes as you put your head to the pillow but mostly I will be gone and our springs and summers—spent on beaches an in forests will be nothing but memories.
“Memories are kind of like smoke” you always told me, as you took drag after drag on that filter-less cigarette. Smoke curling towards the night sky, mixing with the stars. We saw each other in the nighttime and only in the nighttime because my mother and father insisted that you were some sort of bad influence—with your late-night visits to alleyways and your mid-afternoon trips to tattoo parlors (your mother and father didn’t mind—they didn’t mind anything). I’m sorry. I know it seems like I am in a constant state of apology with you and that is probably because I am. But I love you. I loved you when I was with you and even more when you were gone. I know people say you miss things more after they’re gone and it’s true (it’s so, so true). I miss you so much I’m in physical pain and even when I’m in bed with him—in the morning with light streaming through that corner window and birds chirping, I miss you. The way your long brown hair fell across my chest, the way your spider-fingers, adorned with too many rings, slipped into my own. I miss that. I don’t have much to say other than I really fucking miss you and I really fucking love you and I am really fucking sorry.
