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Apr 4th, 09 @ 10pm ] |
Dear Boy,
These thoughts, they sound so much better in my head. When I think of word "oragami" I laugh and remember how we spent two whole hours teaching each other the craziest manipulations of paper, just because we had nothing else better to do. When it's etched in pen, the r is disjointed and oddly attached to the o, and it just looks like a word. The memory isn't there.
The roof is leaking again. I can hear the tin bucket pinging again. I always liked tin buckets, always loved how they reminded me of warm Sunday mornings with a tall glass of lemonade and a gardening spade. Like the 1950's without the gender roles. Just love. I guess that's why I bought the bucket from Ikea; because you thought it was cheap, and I thought it was special. And you said you liked it because I found beauty in it. Because I saw the best in everything, even when you couldn't.
The drip, drop, drip drip drop is picking up again. It doesn't have a melody anymore, it's just spattering and stammering like the rush of words that always flowed through my mouth. To me, I always thought you saw it as just a bucket. You never really told me why you liked it, I just assumed because it was Ikea you wanted it, you always liked that store.
You laughed and told me that I was always so insecure, that you found my ramblings adorable, that you loved to hear me talk. That's when you told me about the bucket, do you remember that? And every part of me wanted you to hold me, to comfort me. I wanted to hide underneath our blanket with a flashlight and wait for the rain to stop. We would make shadow puppets, and tell each other our deepest secrets.
But all I could hear was my voice, and the pinging.
I guess all along it was me. In all our wonderful pizza-making-from-scratch nights, or movie marathons, I felt like we were always forgetting something. I had too many questions to ask, and you forgot your cue cards.
I wanted more than I asked for.
Last week, when we were lying together on the couch, and the power was out because of, of course, another thunder storm (we're such romantics, we picked the rainy city), I rested my head on your chest, and instead of feeling the warmth of your body, the rise and fall of your heart, I heard that damn pinging. I didn't want to hate the pinging, I didn't want to even think about it. But it's all that echoed through my mind. It bounced off the walls and reverberated like the only sound that existed in our world.
A random stream of drops.
I wanted you to love me so badly. I wanted you to clutch me in your arms with all your strength as if there really was a monster under the bed. I wanted to mean something to you, like you do to me. But it was always me, always the pinging. And unless I bombarded you with a grocery list of questions, you didn't have much to say.
I don't blame you.
So I'm writing you this letter, folding the paper in half so you'll think its smaller and less significant than it actually is. And if you see a crackle in the paper here or there, don't think it was my tears. Just wonder why hadn't I chose a clean sheet of paper, if that at all.
I probably should have told you long ago that I'm not the one you want. But I guess you figured that out in a different way. We saw x meets y and different trains, and understood that distance makes all the difference. And the need wasn't the deep, or hungry as we would have liked it to be.
I think we saw too many bad remakes of Romeo and Juliet. I'm sorry for making you watch so many chick flicks with me, you should have told me that you hated them.
I am writing you this letter, because you never did. Because I loved you without really knowing why, and that secretly, a small part of me wishes that you'll read this and come after me.
You don't have to.
Don't.
We're better off this way.
Before I go, I'll empty the bucket, you can have it. And I'll finally call the roof guy. Maybe it's just a band-aid solution, but it's the best that I can do.
You'll never know how much you mean to me,
Girl
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