It has been sometime. Approximately, it has been 37 days.

I don’t think I would’ve ever said a word if you had the option to go on living. I had all of these mixed up feelings, tucked away for good in the back of my mind. I never wanted to imagine a world without your soul.

Our souls may not have been untangled completely, but I swear Ive never imagined a world you weren’t in, too.

I wish I would’ve gotten a phone call. I would have stormed through the house, not knowing what was awaiting before me.

I would’ve told you to drop the gun.

I would’ve told you to leave a note.

I would’ve told you about the file I had for you tucked inside of a dark corner in my head.

It’s always harder to fall out of love, I truly don’t believe we ever stop loving.

Love is in everything.

37 days. 37 days wondering if I could’ve stopped it. 37 days picturing what could’ve happened if I had said something. 37 days wondering what other life exists out of this one, and hoping you found peace inside your mind.

Drop the gun, I’m here for you.

I’ve been sober three years, did you know that? Alcohol used to make me suicidal.

I think even now, it still would.

I wasn’t stupid for feeling weak, I was stupid for trusting the one person who wasn’t supposed to let me down.

And I guess I was tired of being let down.

I was let down a few too many times, I think.

That time, when I broke the windshield, and pushed a car across a busy intersection with nothing but anger and resentment. (It wasn’t my fault for being angry that I was lied to.) That time, when I was 15 and I told you I wanted to die for the first time. (I didn’t need to go to a hospital, I needed my parent to give a fuck.) That time, when I had to walk 8 blocks to work in the freezing cold. (I had already mopped the floor 4 times. I’m sorry it wasn’t good enough.)

I bought a house, did you know that? I needed out of the constant reminder of my ex husband that reminded me of you far too often.

I think even now, it would still be a reminder. I wasn’t stupid for leaving, I was stupid for expecting change. And I guess I was tired of expecting change.

I expected it too many times.

That time, when I told you I was different. (I knew from 5 years old, I didn’t expect punishment for a human feeling.) That time, when I told you that yelling at me didn’t help me. (I wanted to die, and you were yelling about dishes when I worked two jobs and still went to school.)

Just so we’re clear, I graduated on my own. (My brothers best friend helped me with math.) I got sober because I wanted peace. (I was ruining my life trying to make myself something you could be proud of.) I bought a house because I could finally move on. (What was the use of staying in place crowded with trauma?)

I made ends meet for my kids. I made it work because I had to, And I did it without you.

You broke me first. My first heart break came from the very soul that built my heart. But there is nothing inside of me that resembles you.

You broke me because you could, and I fixed it because I had to.

Thank you,

For absolutely nothing at all.

I remember the smell of the cookies as they baked in the oven, not knowing where this would all land me years down the road.

Who would’ve thought this is where it would be.

Messy, at times, but a safety net. Chaotic, and yet strikingly beautiful at first glance.

I only ever saw the beauty in the chaos. I only ever wished for solace for you in all of your madness.

The definition of insanity as described once: “repeating the same action over and over again, and expecting the same result.”

You, were my definition of insanity, but only in the greatest ways.

I always struggle never knowing whether I am too much, or not enough. Not when my presence met yours. I never have to wonder if I am too much, or if I’m not doing enough.

No second guessing.

even in beautiful chaos, even in moments of insanity, even in the moments where solace gripped your hand and tried to carry you, I could still see the rumples in your hard exterior. I still saw those moments of humanity, when you screamed into the void, and wanted anyone to hear you. I hear your screams.

I wanted you to see my ears, that they were willing to endure the screams. I wanted you to feel the warmth as I tightly wrapped your pain in any bit of joy I could find for you, like someone handed me a map with all the wrong directions.

You, were my definition of insanity, but only in the greatest ways.

In a way, this was the happy ending for both of us.

I remember the day your soul separated itself from the earth side. I remember the shattering cold of your finger tips as death slowly closed in around you.

Three hundred and sixty five, plus two hundred and twenty eight.

So much of me was taken with you. I had all of these pieces of you, and you brought them with you to whatever purgatory proceeded you. You took my deepest secrets, and you kept them when you went.

Three hundred and sixty five, plus two hundred and twenty eight.

I spent our final days hoping for peace. Hoping to hold onto you as long as whatever higher power would let me. Praying for softness in the days you began to slip away.

Three hundred and sixty five, plus two hundred and twenty eight.

I picked up the phone and tried to call you today, but I guess a text will do. I constantly find myself hoping you miss me … too. I drove home in the silence, hoping my screams into the void would be heard by you.

Three hundred and sixty five, plus two hundred and twenty eight.

I can feel you overcrowding my atmosphere. Your energy heavy, like god placed weight on my shoulders that maybe I wasn’t quite ready to carry.

Three hundred and sixty five, plus two hundred and twenty eight.

You are in your favorite dimly lit thrift store, with that old familiar smell. Old books, purses, tattered winter jackets. You scan the shelves for a good book, yet nothing really peaks your interest. The bags aren’t really sticking out, you never really commit to purses anyhow. As you make your way toward the clothes when a jacket catches your vision. You normally wear neutrals these days, but you see a dark brown leather jacket. “Still kind of neutral”, you think to yourself. You slip the jacket on, and it feels like it was specifically tailored to fit your arms. You catch the price tag. $5.99. Seemingly destined, you keep the jacket on and make your way to the front of the store. You cash out, and you make your way out of the store. You live downtown, so it’s a short walk to your 3rd floor apartment. It’s fall, so the weather is kind of brisk, jacket stays on. You begin your two block walk home, and you reach your hands into the pockets of your new perfect leather jacket.

What’s in the pocket? As you reached in, your hand felt an envelope, tattered. You held the envelope, tracing all the lines where the envelope had been folded and unfolded. Tracing every outline. Those three flights up to your apartment feel like time was standing still. Inside of your apartment, you finally feel warmth hit your face. You shower, change into your oversized tshirt, and hang your new jacket on the hook. You climb into bed, and immediately you remember the envelope. You jump up out of bed, and you grab this envelope from the pocket. Plain, Manila, and old envelope. You turn it over, and written on the envelope, “V.”
“Vague — that’s what this is.” You open the envelope, there’s a letter inside. You open the letter, to find that this was written for someone. Someone that must have been loved.

“What number letter am I on now?” written in cursive at the top of the page.

“V, I woke up next to you this morning. And even though I knew better than to wake you, I don’t think I wanted to anyway. You looked … well, you look how I look when I think about you. At peace. You’ve been my rock for what seems like a life time. You quickly became such this beautiful hurricane in my life. It wasn’t long before I knew, and I was reminded everyday of the first time we ever met. This morning was my reminder. I held you until my last alarm went off, and I tucked you in, kissed your forehead and I came into this kitchen to tell you how much I love you without having to wake you. V, you are home to me. You’re the smell of my favorite candle that I only light on special occasions. You have this way you look at me, where the sun beats into your eyes in the perfect way. Your laugh, even after all these years, sends chills up my spine. Especially when you laugh at jokes I tell that aren’t even that funny. I wake up everyday with this warmth inside of me, and I like to believe it’s because of you. You don’t mind that I become over obsessed with one song and play that one song over and over again. You don’t laugh at me when I try to sing something and my pitch just isn’t right. I know that looking back, I should’ve known. I should’ve known you were going to change my life. And you did, you waltzed in on this giant balloon thing and you inhaled love into me in a way I’ve never known. It’s like one of those fairy takes, where everything you touch radiates joy and excitement for the future. I don’t wake up and want to die, because I finally have something worth living for.

I love you for all of these little moments, Yours, R.”

There’s a second page, and you realize this tone is different now.

“V, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I thought you might like this, the letter and the jacket. I miss you every fucking day. I’m thinking of you. I hope that if this ever reaches you, you know that I had love for you that knew no bounds. Love is a fickle thing. Whether you experience it for just a single moment, or for decades, there’s a point where you think “fuck. This one’s gonna hurt.” And I knew this was going to fucking hurt.” And it does. It fucking hurts. You put so much life into me, that now I hate knowing what life is like without you. There’s this gaping fucking hole where you took all these little pieces of me that you stitched together with perfect cups of coffee and the smell of amber and patchouli. Whatever. I hope you like the jacket, I got it from my grandmas estate, I think it might’ve been hers. She loved you, and she kept telling me to give it to you because I couldn’t just tell her that I broke us. Having to explain it still leaves this giant knot in my stomach. Feels like my hearts in my asshole. Fuck. I’m rambling again.

R.””

Well… I’m not V. And the amount of times this letter has been folded and unfolded and the envelope is hanging on by small threads, I guess that means that they did get the letter, and they missed you, too. An entire life of waiting, hoping, wondering… if that greatest love will ever come back into your arms again. Experiencing love is such a beautiful thing. It’s crazy to think that love can disappear or never exist at all, but yet… everything in life is done in love. It’s a matter of whether you open your eyes to the idea of love in every sense.

“What does love mean to me?” Love is a warm fire on a cold day. It’s the joy that reheating the same cup of coffee every hour brings you. Love, to me, coming home after a long day and sliding into warm, fresh sheets. Love is the smell of rain on a warm day, or the first snow fall of the season. Love to me is finally having a place to hang your jacket up. Love is a warm bath, and a long road trip with the best playlist. Love has intent. Love is knowing exactly when to leave a party you never wanted to come to in the first place. Love is finding that pair of jeans that you fit perfectly into every time. Love is afternoon naps with the sun coming through the windows. Love is feeling like you finally made it home.

I am not a toy to be used. I am an artist, I use flesh as canvas for my greatest work yet. I am music, lyrics to all of my favorite songs.

I spent a lot of my time wondering if I was ever good enough. You had me second guessing myself. How long does one stay before they realize this is just convenience and safety? I stayed too long. I over stayed my welcome. I stayed until love, became resentment; compassion became a chore. I stayed because I couldn’t picture what things would look like without a safety net to guide me.

But, I am not a toy to be used when you felt like it. I wasn’t meant to just be played with, until you found something easier, softer, quieter.

I wasn’t supposed to be put back on the shelf, but here I am. Dusty, untouched, battered, broken.

Waiting, for whoever decided I was a toy they wanted to keep. I was never really meant to be kept I don’t think.

But there lies the problem. Maybe I am.

Maybe being kept, will quiet my own internalized fire. I’m not a toy to be used, but… maybe I am. Maybe there’s a small part of me that enjoys the company of someone else, over the sound of my own thoughts.

I’m not a toy to be used, but I like the feeling of being needed. I’m not a toy to be used, but maybe I like the feeling of being wanted. The feeling of being cared for, Longed for. Hoped for.

Even if it only lasts a little while, I believe that need will be satisfied within myself, and perhaps that’s what I’m looking for anyway.

I think the day that someone takes me from my box, and realizes I am weathered and torn, they will appreciate the gift. Maybe then, I won’t be just a toy, but a prized possession, a collectors edition. Something worth their weight in gold.