Monday, July 04, 2005

Love Letters

When I was younger, I had a best friend. A boy, about my age. When we were eight years old, we both thin, androgynous children, he found a shoe box full of old love letters. They belonged to his uncle. In retrospect, they were clearly adolescent, these letters. Written by a girl who couldn’t have been much older than I am now. They were written in colored pencils and crayon and occasionally signed “Mrs. _____ ha ha just kidding (for now)”

Were we ever that young?

No. Make no mistake, sex is a bartered-for good, love is currency. And in case you haven’t the intelligence to figure it out yourself, females are the shrewder bargainers. Granted, with the caveat that I’ve never done either, I still think I would rather pay a prostitute then fuck a girlfriend.

And there are two black men on the bus and one of them says
Once you say “I do,” they start saying “I don’t”

And when “yes” means “yes” you’re going to pay.
And pay.
And pay.

Lamenting the death of the ancient art of the love letter she wrote him one.

My dearest,
Do you remember when I went to pick you up at the airport after our first four months apart? I was wearing a blue cable knit hoody, Tilt brand blue jeans,
Royal blue. Low top. Converse.

That raced over the shitty, gray linoleum of the airport baggage claim, raced me into your arms. Black leather jacket and green cable knit sweater.

And it breaks my heart afresh to think of how that story ends.
Because you always left me crying alone in bed.
I always felt kind of guilty for that.
I kind of wished I could fuck you up the ass.
To penetrate instead of being penetrated.
So you could make me pay, like I always made you pay.
Because that’s the natural order of things,
Even though I didn’t want to

I always made sure to stay the longest, so it would be you who
would have to leave.
And finally I grew to recognize that we had found a comfortable equilibrium.
I loved you more the less we spoke.
And I came to recognize that this is the nature of all extended relationships.

In love,
And silence,

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I remember the last time I saw you. I remember the last time I heared you.

I never meant to make you pay.
I didn't always leave you alone with your pain.

I gave it my all to make it work, and I'd still give more in a single word.

I love you now as much as I did when you picked me up at the airport after our first four months apart.

But life is life, and it fucks you up the ass.

I just wish that I wasn't so angry or sad so often.

But then again, I wish so many things.

With love,
ah, nevermind,