Cool summer nights I’d waste sitting at the mail box, waiting for the post man. My heart beat would accelerate whenever he put my mail in the box, hoping, just wishing you’d sent me something this time. Buzzing excitedly, every night I would get the mail. But every night you’d send me nothing. For days, I’d wait at that mail box, becoming optimistic. Nothing came. I didn’t stop, standing there. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All the words of how boyfriends of my very best friends would make them jewelry and send them sweet notes, how they’d always love them. You never told me anything but one line sentences. I’m pretty sure I haven’t talked to you in anymore context. You always apologized to me. Why? Were you too busy for me all those days? Knowing back in the mind, after you had drank one too many bottles of vodka, that you forgot something. Behind all the fame that smothered you, you had forgotten to send something? I waited so long on the empty promises I was given. I haven’t heard your voice say my name, or ever seen you face to face. But I trusted you, with a primal thing called love. I didn’t know why, but I had respect and true adoration no one could buy for you. “What’s he getting you?” My friends would ask? But I never knew what to say; all I had known to do was wait. But on that one day I wasn’t at the mail box, the UPS man had put a package rammed inside the black worn metal box. The next day my boots crunched against the iced snow, I ran to the mail box. Opening up the creaky metal, I found the brown textured paper; the label didn’t have an address. It was somewhere in Los Angeles, but I’d never know. Becoming excited, it said my name; I practically cried. Running up my driveway, I ripped open the door, closing it and grabbing a knife to cut open the package barbarically. Inside it nestled a baby blue box with black lettering. Tiffany & CO. It read in black Italic. I neatly pulled an end of the satin white bow, and grabbing the quarter sized card, it read my name, in pretty black cursive. Opening it delicately, I eagerly wished there were more than five words.
I’m sorry, I forgot.
Lots of Love.
My mind suddenly went into relapse, hot tears formed in my eyes. Maybe the gift would make it better. Opening the little pouch, hoping for a genuine gift, my hands met a cold metal. It was 18k gold, and shimmered in the light, the diamonds reflecting off the big yellow gem in the middle. I felt nauseous. I let out a scream. Throwing it back in the box, I cried. It was so fake, it was as fake as your promises to me. I didn’t want your money. I didn’t want something bought. You’re words were never genuine, just forced. I wanted you to make me something. Something sweet with kind words, or a time consuming song, you’d been hoping to sing to me. I wanted you to think of me in your sleep, from the morning to night. To hope I’d reply to your letters. I was a stupid. My tears couldn’t stop leaking onto my skin. Why did you lie to yourself? You love her, not me, so why do you put me through this pain. Why do you like to watch me suffer under your lies? Does it always have to be me? What about yourself Robert? Are you as kind as they think? I beg to differ.