Just Another Letter That He'll Never Read

A Story by Hannah Paige

You’d think writing about you would be easy, because you’re all I’ve been thinking about for the past three days. But the fact is, I still don’t know what to think. In my dreams, I see your confessions of love; and then when I wake up, I see the future, or that is, the potential hurt that it holds. Things are different this time, aren’t they? It’s never gone this far, it’s never happened quite like this. Now we have a secret. Now we have a promise. But what is it you’re promising me? Your eternal love? Your endless infatuation and irrevocable devotion? That sounds nice Darling, but this isn’t the first time you’ve sworn such things.

It’s not my heart that swells for you, but rather the pit of stomach, up through my chest and into every depth of my spotless mind. That scent you’ve perfected? The one that feels like summer and contentment? I’ve memorized it. And that smile that you wear so sparingly; not the indifferent one, but the pure, joy-filled grin? I strive for it.

When I close my eyes I can see your outline in the purple grey night; I can feel your hand on my back and your lips on mine; I can feel your hot breaths on my cheek. When I think of you, I think of the word “love;” the deep red letters outlined in a thin but vibrant black. If I were to paint the word on my arm, no one would miss it; no one would question its meaning or its sincerity. When I think of you I think of the word “love,” and how you hate to say it. I hear your declaration of falseness against my neck, “it’s used too much, and it means nothing.” Sweetheart you’re clever, but this time you’re wrong. “Love.” It is used often, but never too much, never enough. And its meaning may differ from tongue to tongue, but it always means something. Love is the tender look that you give me when you squeeze my hand, and it’s the warmth in your voice when you tell me that you don’t know what “love” is. Love is love, Darling, for as long as you are mine.

And so I suppose writing about you is not so hard. It is as easy as thinking your name, or dreaming your touch. The difficulty, my love, is in the wondering; wondering where you will be next time I crave your promises, what you will be thinking the next time I am thinking about you. But for better or for worse, it is easy to forget what is hard to remember. It is easy to trust what is difficult to promise. And, my love, it is easy to love you too much.