|Letter to K|
by Sean Garcia  /  fiction  /  13 Sep 2007
I tried calling you today, but you didn't answer. Which is fine -- you have said it would be a busy and hectic few months for you -- but since we can't talk, I thought I'd write a letter instead. I never did get to finish The Tale of Fatty Fattikins, and besides the Van Gogh / Monkey poem you inspired me to write earlier this year, the only thing of mine you've ever read is the story of a nine-inch cock chopped up.
There are so many things I want to say! How pretty the stream was, and how the quiet rush of the water under the shade will forever remind me of you; how the color of your eyes like the sea, and the smoothness of your hair between my fingers like liquid gold, and the way your brow would wrinkle, almost in agony, all come together for me into a feeling of airy happiness and an image of beauty the likes of which I thought gone from the world long before I was born.
But first thing's first: I'd like to start by saying I'm sorry. Sorry for the way we started, with me just out of an old, long-standing relationship, and all the ghosts and pains of mine that kept me from really loving you at full speed, right from the beginning. Sorry for disappearing sometimes into my own little world, without giving you any warning, or tools to deal with it; and for making you do most of the heavy lifting for so long.
And now especially I regret the way I just ran off on you on Monday, slamming my doors like a petulant child. I really didn't mean to. This, whatever it is, probably isn't a walk in the park for you, either. I don't know where you've been in the last few months, or what you've gone through, and unless you tell me I never will. But we all have our own inner lives and private needs; we've each got our greater dreams and places we have to be. You taught me that, and I'll not, long as I live, forget the lesson.
I guess I just wish we could have been in the same place a little longer, and maybe done some travelling together, is all. I don't know about you, but I have spent quite some time imagining our wanderings: how that jaunty step of yours would light up Copenhagen in winter, what commotion you would cause in Rome, smiling like a rock star by the leaning tower or the Colisseum. And Paris! I'll always have dreams of us in Paris to run to at night, when life wherever I find myself lacks the sparkle and joie de vivre you sweep into my heart when you're around.
I've passed the last few days in agony, wondering why you would drop me like an unwanted brochure, and just let me flail in the wind and blow away down the boulevard. Am I not loving or considerate or patient enough? Did you never really love me at all or mean anything you said? Am I just not one of the beautiful people?
That last hurts me the most. It hurts because when we were together you always made me feel like a star, as though I really were on the outside as I am inside, as if it really were as beautiful and young and breathtakingly free to you as it was to me.
And so, since I'll probably never know anyway, I won't choose to dwell on the ugly things. Instead, I will keep a view of two gorgeous and kindhearted, caring and confused, exciting and fearlessly bold explorers, tromping merrily through the world and making everyone they pass stop, and stare, and imagine a beautiful life. It really is how I see the two of us, and I hope I'm not alone in my perspective. Wishing you all the best, I am
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