Letter – 2

Dearest A,

Here’s to you and our, months, of friendship because I have been missing you a little lately.

I wonder, what would my life be like if you were still in it? Well, alright I suppose you didn’t change my life or anything but for certain you added something, and expunged something, and you mattered beyond what I have ever openly admitted to anyone.

It’s interesting how we went from enemies to friends to enemies again, all of it, transitions so smooth and subtle, I could almost just smirk at life’s strange ironies, almost, but not quite, what I will do instead is guffaw.

Guffaw, because that is the sound I make for something that doesn’t hurt me quite as hurt should feel, but it pains me in a way that is hard to explain, with the wouldas and the couldas creating a narrow little stream of nostalgia that cuts through the rest of my memories carrying with it a boat that doesn’t ever seem to capsize, you.

I loved you, oh SO very much, and it doesn’t fade, it doesn’t vanish, it doesn’t dissolve, it doesn’t drown. It’s still alive, y’know. It’s still thwarting itself around in me, but never quite wishing to come out. I don’t know why. It isn’t urgent, it isn’t rampant, it isn’t distressing, it just is, demure and longsuffering.

Even today as I sit here to write this to you this task seems onerous, because my heart isn’t in it, and words don’t find me, feelings don’t find me, love doesn’t find me and I don’t wish to falsify my love, because it is real, very real, it’s just buried a singularly untrodden cranny of my being.

We were two souls made to be friends, of that I have no doubt, your company was delectable and very fulfilling. We have seen each other through quite a bit of everything, and with each experience anew, I loved you just a little bit more. For your simplicity, for your honesty, for your naivety, for your maddening sweetness, for your generosity in spirit, for your alacrity, for your rock solid dedication, for your humility, for your insecurities, for your strength and your compassion. Being around you was so simple and loving you was as well.

The love was different, though. You were never my best friend, and never could be, you were something beyond that to me. You were someone very close to me, very close to my heart, to my being. Now I don’t know how that is different, but I know it isn’t the same, so it should be.

Loving you was like letting go of nothing, like I was holding on to a vacuous girth and allowing you in was letting go of that. You entered and took abode in some place I can never figure out, no matter how many gates and doors I thrust open. Loving you was easy, but rediscovering that love is one of the hardest things I am trying my hand at today.

Why didn’t you understand my love?

I know you think that I wronged you, but I never apologised because I don’t agree, and I won’t ask for forgiveness if I don’t believe I need it, and I didn’t believe I needed it because till today, not for one moment did I believe that I wronged you.

Knowing that a boy, one who gave you next to nothing but suffering, was more important to you than our love, than our pristine, sparkling, iridescent love was enough for my love to flow away into a valley ensconced between rocks and rocks of amassed pain, futility, anguish and sorrow, all malleable and ductile, forever shifting a little here, a little there, and placing you just a little differently.

I loved you, but it smarted, and so I love you, but with flames abated, and I will love you, but if you don’t help me find you soon, I cannot promise that it won’t wane.

Much love and remembrances,

S

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