My heart's in the mailbox

January 16, 2010
By Anonymous

Ello Love. Grr, I know I haven’t sent anything. I’ve been writing but throwing them away… I start writing but by the time I’m done I’m in a different mood and everything just seems redundant. I’m sorry. Nothing is happening, trust me - you’re not missing anything in my life, mostly because you ARE my life, and well, I’m missing you, so you aren’t missing you. All I know is, I think about you more often than breath, and I dream of you nearly every night. Honestly, Baby, I don’t care where we go. As long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy. It’s ohk that you’re anti-social. So am I. Not everyone can be as amazing as our friends. I’m alright Love, really. I just really really miss you…Don’t worry about me though, I’ve always got a plan; I have a surprise for you…I can’t wait to see your smile when you see it…assuming I can finish it before you get here. I still don’t have anything interesting to tell you, I feel like throwing this one out with the rest, but I know how you are, you don’t seem to care what I say as long as I keep talking. I guess I understand, cause I feel the same way about you. Still, you’re one in billions, I could never ask for more…
He wrote this letter. I wrote a letter every day. For one hundred and one days. Exactly. He wrote this letter. He wrote four others too. They came in the same envelope. In that envelope also came a letter from my best friend. The envelope belonged to my friend. He had the inability to send letters himself. Apparently. He had the inability to get the letters to me until the one hundredth day of one hundred and one days. He called me his Starshine. He said he would marry me. One thousand miles away, I believed it. Much less than one thousand days later, he was kissing an old girlfriend. Telling me he would always love me forever and for always, but I was just too good for him. B.S.. The surprise was good at the time – a house in the same town as mine. But when that ghost of his past drifted onto his Myspace page, he drifted away. Without explanation. Without truth. Without closure. And so I still write letters – to him, to myself, to other people… Because I want to find away to close that envelope. To seal that collection of memories with the stamp of my own, because I think I lost myself. I think I got sent in a letter.

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