3 weeks since I last spoke to him
Querido A,
I spent all afternoon reading old e-mails between us, from that heady time in September-October 2004 when friendship had shifted ever-so-smoothly to romance. I thought I was so subtle all along about my attraction, but I realize as I read that I may as well have put out a neon sign. But that’s okay. That’s how I felt. I laughed and smiled as I read, falling for you all over again, and congratulating myself on knowing what a gem you were, from the start. Damn, I was smart. And you were, as you always said, fucking charming.
I was fine while I was reading them. I was better than fine. I was in another time and place, where we were together and entirely smitten with each other, and life was good. And then I looked up and said enough, because I’d been drugged by memories, and the anesthetic thereof was wearing off, and the tears were springing to my eyes as reality elbowed its way into my consciousness once more. I don’t know if I do more harm than good immersing myself in you, in our joint past. That book I bought says “don’t worry about what gets you through at the beginning; just get through.” But as good as it feels to have you back again while I read your words, it feels bad when I stop, when I remember this is all I have left. Yes, they are wonderful memories, but I’d planned on making more, not relying on these to get me through the rest of my life.
Dammit, Sweetie…why’d you have to go? I loved you. I needed you. I still do. We said forever. Forever.