Dear [Probably not you]

The last time that I stayed at your house, I knew, deep down that it was only temporary. So, as I sat with you cuddled next to me, I pushed myself up onto an elbow, and I memorized that moment. I allowed myself to feel everything I had sealed up behind that wall that you seem to be so adept at knocking down (whether you try to or not).  For the briefest of moments, I let myself love you again. And if that seems like a cliche, it’s only because I have a hard time putting you into words.

So, as I laid there that night, trying not to smile at your adorable chipmunk-cheeked profile, I didn’t even try to straighten the thoughts sprinting through my head. I just focused on everything good. I ignored all the pain and disappointment; and I relived the purest, most gullible form of child-like love I had ever experienced. And I prayed to god to give me just a little more time in that moment.

I know that once when I was young and selfish I told you that you were the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t know if I have ever officially retracted that statement, but I take it back. I take it back one thousand times over. I’m sorry. I was heartbroken, and angry, and I said it not because it would make me feel better, but because it would make you feel worse. And I wish I had just kept my mouth shut.

You are, without a doubt, one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. You are a huge part of who I am today, and I will love you until I can no longer feel feelings. It may not be a romantic love, but you have a friend for life, whether you want one or not. You are too indelibly intertwined in my personality for me to ever regard you otherwise. No matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you are with, I will love you.

Part of me is sorry that we met so young, but a much larger part of me knows that I would never be the man I am without you. You woke me up…to everything that I was…and everything I wanted to be.

Thank you.

 

Dear [None of your fudgin’ business],

I miss you more than I thought I would, a feeling which is both uplifting and disheartening.  I contemplated the idea that I had just gotten used to having a regular girl in my bed, but quickly rejected that thought, because the hollow in my chest is much more complex than an insatiable itch for that body. When I close my eyes, it’s not your immaculate posterior that appears, unless of course my purple-headed yogurt slinger is on hand (or in hand). If that’s the case, I usually pull up two images. The first is you on top with your eyes closed, wearing nothing except for a look of satisfaction. The other is you standing with your back to me, wearing only the cowboy boots, with your hips shifted to one side, and looking over your shoulder with a sly smile.  I do have a third option, but it’s egotistically self-indulgent, and farther from appropriate than I dare to go.

However, if I’m just feeling lonely, I see you standing at my door biting your lower lip and staring at me through one eye because the other one is hidden behind a half-curtain of blond hair.  I see you wide-eyed, smiling at me from across the pillow in the morning for no other reason than my uncontrollable awesomeness (I assume).  I see you sitting on the arm of your couch during that Halloween party, looking down at me with your bare legs crossed provocatively in my peripheral vision.  Not only was that the first time I saw your signature complacent smirk, it was also the first time that I sincerely entertained the notion that I could have you; although I knew you’d make me work for it.

Now and then (usually when drinking) I’ll go on facebook and pull up a picture of you just to keep your face fresh in my memory, and it always has two consecutive effects.  First, just an image of you laughing brings a smile to my face; and it amazes me that the simple fact that that one frozen smile, that single moment in time in which you were completely free from anxiety, makes me happy. Because that’s a feeling I haven’t had in years.  Unfortunately, the sight of that insanely charming smile also induces a sinking depression in me: a feeling connected with the inevitable realization that December is still a long way off. Not to mention, that little voice of insecurity in the back of my head wondering whether I’ll be anywhere near the forefront of your mind when you come home; whether I’ll ever get to see that complacent smirk again;  or whether I’ll ever again get the chance to throw you down and rip your clothes off.

All things considered, I think the thing I miss most about you isn’t the fantastic cooking, or the great sex, or the uncut enthusiasm you exhibit on a daily basis. What I miss most is having someone around with whom I can be unapologetically me. No matter what level of douchebaggery or sarcasm I bring to the table, I don’t have to hide behind manners or tread lightly for fear of hurting your feelings. You’re one of few people who understand my sense of humor, and despite my occasional scrooge-like cynicism, you know who I am at heart.

Come home safe.

 

To the girl with contagious self-confidence,

If a crush is just a chemical reaction in the brain, then mine lights up like serial arson when I think about you.

Two days.

That’s all it took for you to make an impression so profound that I’m still not over it, an impression so absolute that it seemed insane.

It still does.

You doused me in petrol with your silly accents, struck a match in the photo booth at Eric’s, and burned me to the ground when you started to sing.

Naturally, I did nothing because that’s the most logical option when falling for someone to whom you’ve only just been introduced. I assumed it was a fluke that would fade over time. Yet, here I am, six years later, pouring myself onto a page in the vain hope that the feeling is even remotely mutual.

Maybe I got sick of waiting for fate to intervene.

Or decided that fate doesn’t exist.

Or the fairy princess attached to my soul was finally fed up with my excuses.

 

At the very least

I know you’ll understand

because you’re a romantic.

And the choice between tearing yourself open or not taking a chance isn’t a choice.

I mean, I’ll be devastated and probably lose all sense of self, but who cares. An identity crisis is sour patch kids compared to eternity.

So,

please know,

that regardless of how this finds you,

you will always live rent free in the brightest corner of my chemical reactions.