But it’s only been two months. I checked the date on the last email you sent me, the one where you said we couldn’t speak anymore. There’s just too much that I want to tell you. You’d be so proud of me, baby. I don’t hate you. I miss you and I forgive you. I still worry about you too, wonder what your life is like now, if you’re smiling or smoking or dreaming or writing. I wish that were enough for us to be friends again.
You won’t see this. But I’m listening to your songs (and singing along), I’m reading your articles (there’s nothing left to edit). I’m watching the birthday video you sent me over and over and over again, and every single time it lifts me right up. You still make me so absurdly happy– how do you do that, darling? We’re like different branches of the same tree, you know we are.
I don’t want to get in the way of your marriage, I never did. But you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had, and it’s only friendship that I hope will be possible again, in the future. I’m trying to be patient. I write you every night, and not once have I pressed Send. I feel like a child in the backseat of a car lost on winding, nearsighted roads. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?