When do I get rid of the memories he gave me on paper? Do they loosen their grip on your heart the way they let go of your throat when the wounds went from hours to days old? They can’t run around your brain with their epic fascination forever. I lost the ticket to our first show when my last journal’s rope wasn’t tight enough. He kept photo strips. Photographers love their photos, even the bad ones, kissing you every third frame like tradition. Remember when I dreamed one day there would be a ring in the fourth? It pays to love an artist sometimes.
Focus darling, this is about letters. Lovely words, promises, arrangements, meant to bind your bond to the tangible world. These letters you keep are proof of love’s gentle touch. Caressed your face, held your hand, still hold onto a part of you, if you are holding the words right now. Does he still keep my words or play through the slideshow I left? I know exactly where he would keep them. His mother’s house was different then. We were different then. I read in my journals from those years that I stayed awake waiting for his calls. “Calls from him are better than sleep.” I wrote to myself. Should I say goodbye to those too? I could tear your pages from the library of my life like an editor.
I wonder about my volumes in yours. My acts, and scenes, and smiles. We were talking about that, the girls and I, at dinner the other day. What you’ll think of when you think of me. Of others too of course. In twenty years will we remember any of the things we did together with anyone we’re caring about now? The way we loved each other? Our names? Maybe you’ll just remember that you spent years watching my hair change colors and sleeping on the right side of the bed when I knew you liked the other. Believing in passion that burned away reason and promising to never forget what we needed. Maybe to put these letters to bed, I needed to give a last one. I’ll fold it up and put it in a box outside and lose it to time with the others and love. There’s no more postage necessary.