Nineteen 03.03.10

Your letter is waiting at home for me. I asked my sick mother and my old limping father to pull it in out of the rain. Along with my shit you returned to me- just in time- just under three weeks since you left me. Yes, I asked my sick, voiceless mother and my cancer ridden Cancer of a father to pick up those things, which I hope still smell like you, and bring them inside. Home.

I'm afraid that I will thrill to read you words, even if what they tell me is NOT what my stubborn heart wants to hear: Let go. Get lost. But I know already that what you will have written will be as painfully beautiful as the sound of 20 violins swelling to me. And you know how I go apeshit for violins. String me up and hum across me with a taut but fraying bow that only you can articulate. And I will cry for you.

I will read that letter over and over trying to make the words fit together so that it says what my heart wants to hear: Love me, come back, come home. Come in out of the rain and dry your weeping eyes on my heaving bosom. Cradle yourself here in my embrace and know that I still am in love with you and I have always wanted you here.

Yes, I asked them to pull those things and your letter with them into our home and give them shelter. But I have miles and hours before I will unfold your letter and feel my heart break all over again at the sight of your writing. Writing I used to think was too pig tailed curly for me to ever read. But eventually it worked its way into my skull, and now I can read it with a fluent kind of grace. Writing that you have to curl your left hand about to write it the same way you would wrap one hand around me and hold onto my hips bones while you poured your love into me.

Is it all lost?

Were the words you spoke on Monday night just an illusion? Were they just you "letting me down easy" and me refusing to hear it over the violin crescendo of when you said "I am still in love with you." Your letter is waiting at home for me and I am driving-white knuckled-speeding back to it the way I used to speed to see you. Your letter is waiting at home for me and I am going home to an empty bed.