I know it’s been years, but I’ve thought about you every day. I wish our breakup hadn’t been so simple.
It seemed sort of… I don’t know, in and out?
I don’t know how many readers can relate to this feeling,
But I hope you don’t get married to this guy. He’s great and all, but maybe if you just give it time, our lives can work out like we’d planned.
We meet back up in New York City and make a life together; barely able to afford a shitty one person apartment we make do in and be happy being each other.
We’re both terrible at planning, I know this, but I’ll never forget that night. That night we stared at that piece together in the museum and stood there for God knows how long. You looked at me once, and you looked at me as if I were art, too. I always saw you that way.
All I had to do was see in your eyes the words that flooded my heart:
“Silhouettes surrounded by light.
Gazing at the digital dirt flying through their two-dimensional airs.
Not a sound, not a peep. Just silence. Content silence.
L’amore è la vita.”
Ever since you left, my words just aren’t that inspired anymore. I can’t write about love because I don’t have a source to pull it from anymore. But I can write about how I felt about you, and maybe that’s close enough.
Your Stray Dog in Your Straw House