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to my lovely

It’s a beautiful day, so I am full of hope.

I should have started this letter with a greeting, but to be honest, there’s no “To My Lovely” left in me, a year later, all the brand-new drained. But it’s okay. I’m different off. I’m still convinced our relationship was never meant to happen, and the time we had together was a happy casualty of a changing age, but I’m not writing to talk about that.

I’m writing cos you’re the obvious choice. Today required a letter, and who else, who better to write to?

Who would you pray to but God?

You’d hate me for that comparison.

It’s still a good one.

I arrived home today with hope stuck deep in my heart like it had been squeezed through an epidermic. Sometimes you find that stuff in the strangest places. It may not be your best friend or even a close friend, but to have someone who knows without a doubt, without a word, that you’ll make it… that’s something. And that boy. He’s something scary, I swear. The way I feel about him. I told Sam today, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t know so much of me was made of electricity, and for such a person. Even if he’s too thin, his torso too long, his nose (God, his nose) too big, I want every part of him. It will never be enough.

I came home with all that inside me, and the energy I felt definitely required some physical expulsion. So
I grabbed a lemon, and a liter of cherry juice, and made my way down the road for a walk. The sun was doing delicious things to me. I was so in love with it. I see the five heavy feet of snow on the ground banked up on either side of the street, but I know, I know the sun is melting it, right now. I can almost feel the rivers it will make beneath me. But the light I felt as I bit into that first sour section of lemon was sexual. The sun touches me in ways that make me wanna do something, and I know its games and all its lovers, but I know it knows what I know. It knows I want it bad.

God, I must have been a sight. The lemon’s taste was sublime, beautiful, a perfect flavor, but it still made my eyes water, and mascara was running in streams down my cheeks. So there I was, half-stepping down this snowy road, mascara tears abound, my red lipstick burning, grinning my face off, singing Jason Mraz at the top of my lungs.

I go back and forth on whether you’d still love me for moments like this, but the conclusion I reach is that I don’t much care. It’s just that you don’t need the light I give off anymore. It’s just the course of life.

By the time the lemon and the cherry juice were finished off, I was dancing in the street, singing to the sunshine, trying to catch it between my palms and laughing to myself. This is what the world tastes like, all yellow and tripping feet and stinging beautiful fruit. Like the hope for spring and better things and miles between each step. If I hadn’t reached home about then, I would have gotten lost in that beautiful lemon sunlight forever. Better than even French disco.

The sun set before I could kiss it goodbye.

Typical.

You know what fills your oceans,
Morganxxxxxxxxxxxxx



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