25 August 2014
I see you there.
You are waiting for me, right outside the door, beaming in through the window. I feel you kiss my skin, fresh from waking.
And the thing, sun, is that I think it's time, at long last, to come clean. You've known for some time now -- 'tis no mystery to either party here -- that things have grown strained between us, the space between us, first specious, and then infinite. There it is -- plain as the day you make -- a gulf, and we, islands in its wake. And in this letter, I intend to row the distance of that space, to land on some more honest, and happier shore.
...of course you are lovely.
Of course. I could never disagree. Oh, the wonders of migration that swept me off from the rainy, grainy, woodsy Northwest and into your sunny arms three years now past.
In that time, my brain rejoiced, what is this wondrous, golden orb! You, the antidote to my weary-of-wool-and-rainwear soul.
And that was it. We were together, said Walt Whitman, I forget the rest. Smitten was the word. I fell fast for you, as all girls in love are wont to do.
But our torrid affair was short-lived.
History and literature and film and art and music -- they all warned us: such affairs as passionate as ours are apt to wane. We wouldn't listen. We were in the mountains, on the roads, in the fields together...but at some point, when I started to feel your 300-days-a-year level of presence more intensely, I felt my mind start to wander to some gloomier, grayer place. And it was trying to stay there, wanted to. Waking up one morning in the company of a rare rainstorm, I was flooded with the memory of a forgotten, most exquisite lover.
(...And before you call me selfish, let me say how terribly I want that feeling to befall you, too.)
Look. This is confusing for me, too.
But I'll not be coy -- I admit, I like seeing you from time to time, bumping into you on walks, catching a glimpse of you from the passenger's seat, feeling your warmth on my skin. I like knowing you're near, like entertaining that old daydream that we might happen upon each other now and then on some auspicious corner. I'll be rosy, and freshly made-up, my hair will fall just right, and my eyes will sparkle in ways resplendent, and I'll be toting some novel under my arm, the title of which will you make wonder just enough if I've been thinking of you.
I'll say it's been awhile -- you look good.
(You'll know just how good you look.)
(You'll know I know just how good you look.)
I want you, and near, in some ways, but not all. I'd like if we could meet over brunch here and there. I feel I've been avoiding you, squirreled away in my apartment, lingering in the sheets, fleeing when I feel your bold approach through the blinds. As you can see, the situation's not been fair. To you. So an explanation was owed.
But I still want to be very good friends.
And in the spirit of friendship, I refuse to insult our good memories with duplicity. So, I will disclose the unabridged truth of the matter: It pains me to admit, but I talked about you behind your back. Over coffee, Lacy and I discussed the photographs and poems the rain inspires, and as we sat there, volleyed stories back and forth across the cafe table, felt our bellies growing giddy with dreams of rainy days, it struck me that our relationship was lovely, but it was only ever that.
A flirtation. An unanticipated kiss. And its precipitations -- or literal lack thereof. We were too red-hot, or you were, and I need a lover with whom I can be cool.
And during the course of our conversation, I realized another thing. I'm just going to come out and say it: rain and I...we belong together. For the long and drizzly haul. We have our spats, too -- we argue and I don't appreciate it enough sometimes, and I find myself growing wary of our togetherness and I fall to silly complaints -- but, the rain brings out the best in me in a way, that despite our happy times, you never quite did.
I have been masquerading as a potential pursuit, when in fact, I am someone else's girl, and this charade cannot go on.
We might agree to leave it with this -- that I have loved you, and do, but I am not in love with you.
And so, I release you from this -- whatever it is, has become. But trust that I know there's a better girl for you. I hope you find her, and happiness.
Sincerely, (and sometimes) yours,