and I wonder if you'll think I'm silly in that less-than-loving way. I decorated the envelope in yellow stickers, the many expressions of dramatic Spongebob; I added two extra over the seal, then drew a sloppy heart around them and spelled love with a w. the silly things that make me smile when I do them with someone else make me nervous when I do them for you. everywhere is mud and eggshells, and I get tired from trying to move without stepping in It. before I put the letter in, I took the pen to its back, and I wrote - with the tip just far enough away so that you will not see the words, but they are there - please, Jenna, please. don't die. don't stay sick. don't lose me. scared as I am of losing you, it's multiplied by all the unraveled and unfinished strands that will be ends if you don't get your time. full time. real time. the whole life as intended... what if you never say, yes, I do love you, even still. say, yes, I do remember. say, I feel and felt it, too. say, Mary, I don't want to die like this. I don't want to leave now. I'm sorry, God; I really, really want to live.
otherwise. I have tears I'll never get to use to clean your face. I'll never end up with your hair in my mouth when my wet kiss strays a little too open. I'll never tell you that dumb joke I thought up centuries ago about your hair - which is red now, like Sara's - chosen-red as mine will be chosen-blue - cherry, strawberry, or sugar and food-coloring. no. don't go. read what is invisible in the note. read it and hear the resonating I know that I will give you when you tell me all these things I need you to say. and then stay. damnit, stay. I will kill the gods if this kills you.
and all this instead of a phone call, all this because I'm afraid that dialing your number is like picking up glass with bare hands. done on the off chance/ unconscious hope of a cut here and there.
I still hope you'll be ok, and I'm still reckless enough to want to call regardless.
it's not about the envelope, the stickers, the handwriting, the card inside. it's not even about those damn words, the same words, the insistent words, the casual words. it's not about any of it. it's us, and I miss you, and we're keeping a distance so as not to say we broke because maybe you are breaking. don't you know we don't have time to live this way, with so little clue how much life we have?
~me