I'm done.

Dear Jon -

I trusted you. I let you into my life and told you my secrets, crazy spiritual beliefs and all. I'm so tired of waiting for you. And now you've betrayed me in the most hurtful way. This is my life. School is my life. It's my future. It's my career. It's my calling. And not only did you reveal my secrets to the program, you told our supervisor at work. That place was sacred to me. When I was going through all the shit of a failing marriage and a deathly ill friend, that was the only place I felt like I knew what I was doing. And now you've defiled it.

I trusted you. And you not only ignored me out of cowardice, then you be betrayed me.

I'm done.

-M

Last Last Song

Dear Jon -

It's been eight days since I heard from you. I try not to spend too much time thinking about you, it's mostly just before falling asleep or in the shower - those quiet times my brain won't shut up.

I'm angry and sad. I really thought that things were happening between us and moving forward. I don't even know how much of that I made up or how much of it we both felt...

I'm embarrassed, too. Because I know that we sound delusional when we talk about our spiritual heritage. I shared that with you, and I hope that it isn't the reason why I haven't heard from you. I hope you're just out of town and forgot your charger or something. Wouldn't that be nice? Worst case scenario, you've decided I'm some sort of crazy person and feel the need to tell the faculty about it. I honestly believe that's catastrophic thinking, but I don't really know you.

You don't know me, either. I don't think you ever really saw me. I'm so angry.

The last time we smoked together outside at work, I said that I was sad I wouldn't be seeing you anymore. You said that it was our choice whether or not we'd see each other. It is our choice, Jon. But I can't decide for both of us.

Please just txt me. I guess the absolute worst scenario is that you got in a horrible accident or something. I pray that you're alright. I txted you on Wednesday (two days ago). If I haven't heard from you by Wednesday (five days from now), I'll try again.

I've been learning the songs you like on the guitar. I took you seriously when you said that someday you wanted me to show you my stuff and be all narcissistic, like you feel inspired to do when we're together. I hope you were serious and that we can make some music together. I loved that.

- M.

It Wasn't Much

Dear Jon -

Haven't heard from you in three days. More than that, but that's the last time I txted you. I know you're with your old friend traveling to Canada. Or should I say "friend"?

I hope you're having a lovely time. I hope that time away from me makes you miss me. I hope that when you get back you want to see me. I hope a lot of things, I just don't know if I'm going to get them.

I miss you and I want to see you. I get so angry with you, sometimes. I think you are missing me. I think that you don't see me when I'm with you and you don't even think about me when I'm not with you. I think I should give up.

Leonard Cohen:

I did my best
It wasn't much
I couldn't feel
So I tried to touch
I've told the truth,
I didn't come to fool you.
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

I miss you, Jon. Come home and txt me.

- M.

Anything

Dear Jon -

I thought we would see each other yesterday, but we didn't. You cleaned house and worked on your friend's motorcycle instead.

I feel very angry with you today. I feel angry because I don't want to beg you to see me every time we get together. I don't want to pussyfoot around you, like Gabe thinks I should. I want to move forward. What is it going to take?

Dramarama:

OK what is it tonight?
please just tell me what the hell is wrong,
Do you want to eat, do you want to sleep, do you want to drown?
Just settle down, settle down, settle down...

I'm so sick of you tonight,
Is something wrong with me, something wrong with you?
I really wish I knew, wish I knew, wish I knew...

I was young I learned a game,
that love and happiness were the same,
And now I'm older and I don't play,
I found out the hardest way

I even let you hear the songs I want to sing,
I'll give you anything, anything, anything...

Anything...

Your friend came in from out of town today. You're going with her to Canada to visit her family. The other night after you gave me a ride home from the hospital you had a "friend" at your house playing videogames, waiting for you.

If, after all of this time you've told me you aren't ready for a relationship, blah blah, you're actually dating other people, I'm going to be so upset. I'm so angry and frustrated with you. You're so emo and self-absorbed. You take all of your feelings and energy and creativity and life force and turn it inward on yourself. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get you out of this funk.

I think I'm entering the phase where I rebel against my feelings for you and rail against seeing you or anything to do with you. I've gone through it before, I'll go through it again.

I asked you if you know how I feel about you, like Gabe suggested, and you said, "I think I do." Please realize that I've been waiting for you for a year. I even got married in the middle. Don't make me wait forever.

-M.

PS

I want to add that I'm tired of shaving my legs for you. Seriously, I shaved for this? I think 90% of my shaving in the past year has been because of you! The other ten percent was for my wedding. Think about that next time you don't even kiss me!

I Could Use Someone Like You

Dear Jon -

Yeah.

...Yeah.

The dress wasn't enough tonight. We talked about sex, we watched that show, we talked about our divorces... and we didn't kiss.

I want to be bolder next time. I'm going to try. Please, God, give me the power to try.

I love you, Jon. I asked you if you know how I feel about you and you said, "I think I do." I love you.

Lynzie Kent:

You know that I could use somebody
Someone like you and all you know and how you speak
Countless lovers under cover of the street
You know that I could use somebody
Someone like you

Off in the night while you live it up I'm off to sleep
Waging wars to shake the poet and the beat
I hope it's gonna make you notice

Someone like me

I'm ready now, I'm ready now.

-M

I Expect Nothing Less....

City an Colour:

So why does it always seem
That every time I turn around
Somebody falls in love with me
This has never been my soul intention
And I have never claimed to have patents on such inventions

Just save your scissors
For someone else's skin
My surface is so tough
I don't think the blade will dig in
Save your strength
Save your wasted time
There's no way that I want you to be left behind
Go on save your scissors
Save your scissors

There is something that I must confess to you tonight
To you tonight
And that is I expect nothing less from you tonight
From you tonight


Dear Jon -

We saw Gabe. We took Gabe to the hospital. And now that all of that has calmed down, I'm about to go to your house and have a few beers and "watch a movie or something." I'm wearing a fuck-me dress, as Gabe would say. He recommended it over the jeans and a busty blouse.

I want to be clear, I think there are two things going on here. First, I am head over heels for you. Second, I think you're nephilim and I want you to be exposed to our culture and our ways; I want you to have the support of the community (God knows you need it). Seeing Gabe was for the latter. Tonight... tonight is for me.

Please see me today. Look at me. See me for who and what I am. Recognize me. Feel me. Touch me. I'm not expecting sex; I spent hours writing you that disclosure letter I'll never send telling you how happy I am that we haven't had sex. What I'm expecting is something to move in you for me. Please.

-M

You Don't Know Me

Dear Jon -

Tomorrow we see Gabe. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm going to have Gabe help me explain to you who we are and why you've experienced some of the same things we've all experienced. And that will be enough; if God brought me to you for that, then that will be enough.

On top of all that and apart from all of that, I'm in love with you. You say I bring out this creative, narcissistic side of you that inspires you to read me your poetry and show me your art, and yet you know little about me. When I saw you last night, I was so encouraged because you started using the word "you." You even said that you'd have to indulge my narcissistic creative side at some point, and I agreed to bring my guitar. You showed interest in me. It was a distinct shift from the inward focus you've always had with me.

Last night I told you that I am changed because of you, and it's true. You've changed me, and I don't want the chance of you being my perfect pairing, my mate, pass us by because I was too afraid to act.

Ray Charles:

You give your hand to me
And then you say, "Hello."
And I can hardly speak,
My heart is beating so.
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well.
Well, you don't know me.
(no you don't know me)
No you don't know the one
Who dreams of you at night;
And longs to kiss your lips
And longs to hold you tight
Oh I'm just a friend.
That's all I've ever been.
Cause you don't know me.
(no you don't know me)
For I never knew the art of making love,
Though my heart aches with love for you.
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by.
A chance that you might love me too.
(love me too)
You give your hand to me,
And then you say, "Goodbye."
I watched you walk away,
Beside the lucky guy
Oh, you'll never ever know
The one who loved you so.
Well, you don't know me
(For I never knew the art of making love, )
(Though my heart aches with love for you. )
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by.
A chance that you might love me too.
(love me too)
Oh, you give your hand to me,
And then you say, "Goodbye."
I watched you walk away,
Beside the lucky guy
Oh, you'll never ever know
The one who loved you so.
Well, you don't know me
(you don't love me, you don't know me)

Dream

Dear Jon -

I had the most wonderful and satisfying dream about you last night.

You have rejected me many times and circumstances have kept us apart, but now we are together and totally in love. It feels so intoxicatingly wonderful to cuddle up to you, to press my face into your shoulder, to nuzzle your neck and feel you smile against me. You are struggling with the realities of your life, and in a discussion we have you decide that you need a new job. We are driving in your huge van. We park outside the police station. I think that you are donating the van, but then an officer comes out and talks to you about parking. You tell him you'll be right in and pull out a jacket - you are going to be a police officer. I feel so proud and satisfied to be with you, and we're still figuring things out, but we know that we are supposed to be together. It's natural.

I love you, Jon. I hope you come with me to see Gabe this weekend.

- M.

I Love You

Jon -

On Tuesday we celebrated your last week at work (and you didn't bother to show up). Today, we celebrated your last day. Then I went to your house and we drank and talked.

You say that there's something in me that brings out your narcissistic, creative side. Then you talked about your con-artistry.

Jon, You're nephilim. I didn't know how to tell you tonight, and I plan on getting you and Gabe and I together to figure this out.

All I know is that I love you. I know we're both seriously fucked up and we'll never work out, etc etc, but I love you. Maybe God made me love you so that I could bring you in, but I don't care.

I love you, Jon.

- M.

Dinner Tonight?

Dear Jon -

Today after group we stole a cigarette together (and at the school, no less! For shame, had we been caught!) and we revisited the dinner option. I was incredibly anxious, but it seemed to go well.

So please, please do txt me. Dinner tonight?

- M

A window in my heart

Dear Jon -

A busy and frustrating weekend with Marcus and Josh. Josh and I had sex. I guess this means we're back together, I don't know. I have so many qualms about it, and my divorce isn't even finalized yet. And constantly I'm thinking about you.

I've figured out how to make iTunes work. I was getting furious with my playlist for being filled with other people's music (this song was when I was dating so-and-so, this song came from a CD so-and-so burned for me, this song is by so-and-so's favorite band...), so I have been making my own. One of them is for you. It's going to be the mix tape I've previously mentioned here. I mention it again because I play it in the car when I'm with Josh and I have guilt. Not only guilt, but a thrill of excitement. Am I a terrible person?

I had a dream last night that you and I and several others were in a tiny trailer next to a river. There was a rich man who came, and we were trying to seduce him to get money out of him. Everyone kept offering me to him and I was willing to do it so we could survive, then they offered him you and I together and he said he'd think about it. You and I were both very anxious about it and you said something about how our first time shouldn't be with someone else. You looked younger and had very short cropped hair. Your face was smooth and innocent.

I'm going to go play WOW now. I see you tomorrow. Maybe dinner?

- M.

Let's run away

Dear Jon -

You weren't at work today. I honestly didn't really expect you there, just hoped.

I'm going to go put on a "fuck me" dress and take nude photos of Marcus's new roommate so that he can try to get a gig for a porn outfit. My life is fun, sometimes. Tonight, we're all going to see a movie.

There's some sort of drama happening between my ex and his current room mates. I'm still trying to decide what my living situation will be in a few months. I had resigned myself to staying here until September and then finding a new place, but that process may be sped up if there's room coming open.

Unless, of course, you want to run away together.

Alex Day's You and Me:

We knew it from the start
That we would be together in some way
You needed me and you know
I still need you back
Don't get the wrong idea,
We both know what this is
And how it ends,
But I can't wait to share all this with you.
Let's run away where they won't find us now
We'll hide far away and we'll be free,
Just you and me,
Just you and me.

I swear these fantasies of you keep me going sometimes. A year spent with intention-filled visualizations of you. Meditation with a plot, right?

Oh, Jon.

- M.

Should have done better than this

Dear Jon -

I saw you today only briefly. It was after group and you were busy chatting it up with your group co-leader. I wanted to ask you to dinner, but I didn't want to do it in front of him and I couldn't quite navigate the awkwardness of waiting for your conversation with him to be over, so I left. I'm going into the office tomorrow. Maybe I'll see you. If I don't, maybe I'll txt you and invite you to dinner on Sunday.

My ex has utterly enamored of me. We've been friends, you know, throughout the marriage and most certainly after my husband left. He's been helping me take care of our sick friend. But he's now planning some sort of vacation for us in July. I'm afraid he's trying to rush us back into a relationship together, and I'm not even divorced yet. The worst part is, I think I brought this on myself. I've been terribly lonely, and in my loneliness I txted him all the time and wanted to spend time with him. Now that I've gotten to the point where the loneliness doesn't bother me too much, I'm unhappy with his constant txting me and wanting to see me. It's probably been cruel on my part in some way, and I need to figure out how to make amends.

I want to single for a while, I think. I want to be free. I want to wear dresses and try to be myself and relax.

Am I incapable of love? I hope not.

Carolina Liar lyrics:

Save me, I'm lost
Wait, I'm wrong
I can do better than this
Show me what I'm looking for

I really wanted to talk to you today.

-M.

Confessions 2

Dear Jon -

I announced my divorce on Facebook. We'll see how supportive people are. I turned in the last of the paperwork today, promptly followed by going to Goodwill and buying a few dresses to wear on dates. I'm thinking about txting you and telling you to take me to dinner so that I have an excuse to wear one. Maybe tomorrow after group I will.

- M.

Sleeping Sickness

Dear Jon -

It's 1 AM. I would say I never sleep anymore, but after an exhausting day at work, I got home around 7 and slept until 10. At least you got out of running the groups for the kids.

Someone in my cohort told me during my first year that it's alright to be a wounded healer, as long as you're not bleeding all over the place. Right now, I feel as if I'm spurting blood everywhere I go. I told a few members of our clinical team that I'm getting divorced and I'm going deaf today. I'm glad that I did; it's a relief and they are supportive. However, I really feel like I'm on the edge of being contained. I feel terrible for my clients, but luckily I don't have too many right now. I'm just going to try to coast out the rest of the summer and relax and take care of myself.

I've spent the last 45 minutes picking out and outfit and pressing my suit for tomorrow. I'm going to next year's practicum site for them to take my fingerprints and do my background check. That will be very exciting and fun.

I'm also going to turn in my divorce paperwork tomorrow, as I have to pass through the town with the courthouse on my way to the town where my site is. That is going to be much less fun. I should reward myself with booze, and I probably will.

Today as we were smoking, I really wanted to reach out and just grab you and cry. It was almost as if I were drowning and you were some sort of lifeline for me. I know that you're in no position to be anyone's lifeline, and so, somehow, I restrained myself. You sounded wounded in some way when you said you would see me again soon as we parted.

I hope you do take me up on dinner. Maybe tomorrow? That would be a relief, to have someone to commiserate with over the divorce process. And, of course, I'd love to see you.

You were so handsome today in your jeans that are too tight and your polo over a t-shirt, in muted indie colors. Something about your package today was immodest. Or perhaps I'm projecting. I have such a difficult time viewing you sexually, and honestly I haven't been very interested in sex for the past few months. But every once in a while, like catching a glimpse of the curve of your inseam, I get the tinglies. I wonder if I ever give you the tinglies.

- M.

Waiting for time to burn me down

Dear Jon -

Blame it on the Tetons lyrics:

Everyone's a building burning with no one to put the fire out. Standing at the window looking out, waiting for time to burn us down. Everyone's an ocean drowning with no one really to show how they might get a little better air if they turned themselves into a cloud.

I'm not writing for you. I'm writing because the house is empty and the cat knocked over my flimsy little coffee table so there's papers and cigarette butts all over the living room floor (I know I shouldn't smoke in the house, but with no one to tell me "No," why not stay up all night getting drunk and getting crazy and trying desperately to forget how desperate my life has become?)

Why should I bother not to eat frozen yogurt out of the tub with old BBC documentaries playing on my laptop in the dark? Why should I bother to sleep, or to even attempt sleep, or to eat anything besides diet soda and saltines and ravioli from the can? I don't know what to do with this time and this empty house. Time. and Emptiness.

This too shall pass, right?

The doctor really scared me, today. In a few years I'll have a half a million dollar education and I'll be deaf. What to do then? Better start learning ASL, I imagine. When I was first diagnosed, I took a few classes (I was scared then, too).

But the music. I don't have an obsession with discography like the Nick Hornby-esque musicphiles I know, and I can't tell you the names of the bands I like without looking at my iPod, much less who their lead guitarists are.

But the music, Jon.

When I was in middle school, I started playing in the jazz band. I loved it because I was a part of something moving and beautiful, because I belonged, in harmony. I loved it because my part was small and didn't make sense alone, but when placed in context I mattered. I kept playing, and it was my love and my escape in the midst of being raped and being an outcast and leaving home and working my ass off and being smarter than everyone but not smart enough to take care of myself. I was in the all state band. I had a music scholarship. I started traveling with the college band. I started playing on the Strip, paying gigs with grungy old jazz musicians who drink shots of whiskey between sets. I was living a beautiful and dirty and wonderous life, and I lost the hearing in my left ear. I couldn't keep time anymore. So I became an engineering major. Then I dropped out of school.

That's when I started playing the guitar. It's just me, and I don't have a voice, but I can certainly raise a joyful noise. I'm not that good, but I am good enough to let my friends sing along and become a part of something again, sometimes.

I'm losing my hearing, Jon. But the music. I don't know what I'll do for the music.

I re-read this blog from the beginning tonight, before I spent an hour howling along to my poor covers of Leonard Cohen and the Pogues. I can't be this into you. I think I'm just really lonely. I've been lonely for a very long time. I'm constantly disappointed - in life, in those around me, in myself. Life is supposed to be better by now.

Right now, I'm living in an apartment I can't afford, teetering on the edge of academic probation, in the midst of a divorce, in constant fear of debilitating vertigo which could come with no warning, terrified I'm going to be deaf before I graduate. Is this all there is? Is that all there is?

I was talking to a friend about you tonight. He asked me what I want out of this. I told him that I just want you to acknowledge that I meant something to you. I think that would be enough - to feel like I mattered to someone who meant something to me.

I'm tired and I'll see you in nine hours.

I hope you think of me sometimes, Jon. I hope you find the time to pray for me.

- M.

Mix Tape

And still I'm not done with you.

I've been composing a mix tape for you in my head, as evidenced by the "soundtrack" to this blog, and today I started paying the damn $.99 a song to make the CD. I'm going to give it to you, I hope (and if I'm very courageous, I'll put Avenue Q's "Mix Tape" as the last song).

So, since I last wrote my life has been something out of a terrible German play. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. To sum it up, an old friend of mine (who also happens to be a fugitive) showed up on my doorstep with a terminal illness. My husband and I talked and agreed to take him in. Well, five days later, my husband called the cops and had him arrested. I promptly left my husband for this betrayal. I might have gone back to him, had he not then called all of my friends from school and told them that I'm a cult member and my old friend is the cult leader and he has me brainwashed into protecting him. I might be a cult member, but I'm not brainwashed. He also told people I tried to kill myself and some other stuff. He canceled the electricity and gas to my apartment and some other stuff. I can't even keep track of all the crazy shit he did (this all started six weeks ago, and just today I had to get the internet straightened out). In any case, he's made it impossible to reconcile. I have the divorce paperwork sitting next to me as I type.

You know most of this, because during our smoke breaks, I've been keeping you updated. You've been wonderful, listening to me blabber on. There were a few times when I thought I was being selfish and horrible because you have your own shit going on, too.

In any case, Jon, the last time we spoke was on Thursday, when I asked you if you'd like to have dinner. You said you'd txt me. You haven't yet, but I have hopes.

So what the fuck do I do now?

I never wanted to be divorced, but thank the gods that I am going to be. Because I'm free, and you know how desperately miserable I was. I begged you to be my excuse not to get married and you told me not to, but I needed another excuse (and thank you, thank you, thank you, Jon, for not saying "I told you so"). And thank the gods I'm getting divorced because... now I can pursue you.

Jon, I've thrown myself at you at least ten times. Maybe God kept you away from internship so that you could be here with me for another year, I don't know. I think that maybe he put us both at our site so that we could be there for each other. I know that you helped me, and maybe I helped you. It's been a hard year. So what are you going to do? What the fuck are you going to do?

I remember almost sleeping with you. I remember reading poetry to each other and crying in our drunken moroseness. I long for you. I have a genuine loathing of Facebook because your profile keeps coming up saying, "Reconnect with him." Jon, something has to change.

And, I suppose things will change. The second week of August, we'll be done at our site, and what will happen then? Will you be gone forever? I won't see you at work or school anymore. Will you just let me go?

Hope is what makes this all so hard. Hope.

I'm melodramatic, but I'm allowed to be. I found out today from the doctor that my inner ear condition has spread to my other ear and I'm slowly going deaf. But I don't even want to think about that right now. I'd much rather daydream about you.

I look forward to seeing you in clinical team tomorrow. Maybe you'll sit near me. Maybe we'll smoke afterward and I'll tell you the divorce paperwork is filled out. What will you do?

- M.

This Too Shall Pass

Jon -

I left my husband today.

- M.

Confessions

Dear Jon -

I have always loved lists. There is a line from a Bukowski poem:

the power and
the glory of
two slippers under
a bed

It's stuck with me since I was in high school doing performance pieces at the cafe and sleeping with drunk journalists and the undercover narc guys. It stuck with me because we live in a holographic universe, where the smallest detail is a reflection of the whole. I didn't know that, then, and I'm not sure I know it now, but isn't that what psychology is about? Taking people's pieces, their fragments, and extrapolating from those parts their wholes?

Lists are a way to do this. Lists are a way of cataloging those beautiful and seemingly insignificant moments which contain within them the power and the glory of the whole.

I want to list you. I want to make a list of all of those insignificances which add you up for me, but I think about that client we discussed in who is engaging in those stalking behaviors and I wonder if I don't get close to that line, sometimes. I know I'm batshit crazy for you, but am I a stalker? Before I got married, I drove past your house a few times. In my defense, I was single and my house was four blocks from yours. It was easy to take the little longer way home to see if your car was in the drive or to just admire the hops growing in your front yard.

Hops growing in your yard
Freckles on your lips
The way you tighten half of your mouth to non-verbally communicate that you are thinking and that you might disagree but are too polite to say that
The lines at the corners of your eyes when you smile or laugh
The way you preface everything until it's meaningless
Your incessant leg tapping
Shrugging your shoulders with your hands in your pockets and shivering in the cold
How aware you are of all of your movements and every word you say
You blink slowly, and look far away, as if everything is painful to look at or think about
The cadence of your voice when reciting song lyrics as if you're reading performance poetry, ending every line with an upturn of the voice as if it's half a question
Oh, your voice when you sing, Jon... when you sing...
Driving and talking with a cigarette in the corner of your mouth
At least once a week you tell me you're going to the bathroom. I'm beginning to think you have irritable bowels or something.
Your brown leather note pad, beat up, like a 50's poet would take to a cafe
Hand gestures in rhythm to speech patterns
You narrow your eyes when you mean what you say
The awkward grace with which you remove a cigarette from a pack
Your little cat walking on your shoulders while you try to recite poetry
Your old man sweaters, especially the golf one. My goodness.
Suspenders at spring banquet
You always have the silliest notes written to yourself on your hand
When I tell you a story, your eyes watch my eyes until I meet them
That stupid, beat up, green hat with the asymmetrical fray on the bill and the buckle that makes you look like such a hipster

Should I go on? I could.

Enough. I have several unfinished businesses dealing with you thus far:
1. Have to touch you. Sometime. Somehow. Maybe Monday. Or if I txt you and convince you to let me come over tomorrow (Sun) night. Though I'm not sure I'll have the balls to do it.
2. Have to post about "that night." Need to get it out.
3. Your CD. See 1 about drunken txts.

And now, it's 3 am, and I'm going to sleep.

- M.

Save Your Scissors

Dear Jon -

I cut my hair today. I hope you like it when you see it. It's probably too short, as I can't see the back of my own head, but luckily curls are forgiving (and it'll grow out).

I got drunk this afternoon and thought I might txt you, but I didn't. Maybe Monday?

-M.

"Anna begins to change my mind..." (please)

Dear Jon -

I got the position for next year. Thank God. I opened my phone to txt you about my good fortune and found a txt I must have sent after returning home on our late night. It said simply, "I love you, too." God, how embarrassing. I don't even remember sending it, though I do remember thinking you said that you love me just before I left.

Ah, love. I do love you, Jon. I love you because you are human and beautiful and real. My love for you is also very different than my love for my husband. I won't make the romantic / platonic love distinction, because I think that is not sophisticated enough a distinction. I love you as a person, as a child of God, as something else as well...

Anna Begins / Counting Crows lyrics:

It does not bother me to say this isn't love.
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love.
And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that.
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Or something in between,
And I can always change my name
If that's what you mean...

You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget. To make yourself forget. I am not worried.
"If it's love," she said, "then we're gonna have to think about the consequences."
But she can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and...

And Anna begins to change her mind.
"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says.
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

But I'm not gonna break and I'm not gonna worry about it anymore.
I'm not gonna bend, and I'm not gonna break. And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy...

I start to think about the consequences,
And I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...

And Anna begins to change my mind.
And everytime she sneezes I believe it's love and,
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

How do I begin to tell our story? I've been thinking seriously about some sort of art project, like a YouTube video mini-series or a novella or something to get the story out. It would be letters and poetry that the two characters write to each other, but never deliver. It would recount the same events from both of their perspectives. And in my head, in the story that I want to tell, they are both longing for each other; he has his reasons for not returning her advances.

And how does the story end? The work side by side, pining after one another, longing, for an entire year of work, and then they leave? They simply lay the mantle down and move on? You see, in the story I want to tell, I think he cares too much to just go away.

What will you do, Jon, when the year is up?

I did txt you about my placement for next year, and you congratulated me. Thank you for being happy for me.

- M.

Dear... in headlights

Dear Jon -

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror; my eyes are tired and rimmed in red and black. I took the pin from my hair and let the curls fall down to cover my face, and thought of you.

I thought of you because this morning, as I contemplated walking in a mess, I thought of you and twisted my hair up. You are the inspiration and the let down.

I saw you at school, today - you heading out as I was heading in. It was startling close to the fantasy's beginning, where you see me and take my hand, and ask me to come with you, obligations be damned. They weren't damned, today. I hope you saw my lovely hair from the distance across the lot. You raised your hand to me in acknowledgment, and I raised mine back.

I have your CD and need to give it back. I'm contemplating a txt tomorrow night, something like: I have your CD. Let me bring it over. I promise not to hit on you. I have beer and poetry.

Will I have the courage?

Soon, I'll have to post about "that night."

- M.

Only Living Boy in New York

Dear Jon -

I imagine that this will be something of a long post. First, we spoke twice today. And second, I realized last night, after stating I was going to bed and instead reading through the entirety of this blog again in a fit of unexpected masochism, that I never actually blogged about what happened on Wednesday of last week. I don't want to call it "that night" because "that night" is the night I wore orange and you got me high against my will and we didn't sleep together. I've already been referring to it as "our late night," and I suppose that will suffice. But for now, today.

I was hardly in the office, with so many errands to run. When I came back in the afternoon, you were sitting at my station, with your things on top of my closed laptop, doing your thing. I was a) startled to see you, b) filled with love and familiarity that you were in my area, and c) ashamed at the inconvenience I had caused, taking that space and then not being present.

I had a client, then came out and saw you again (in your green polo with the collar turned up over brown thermal with the sleeves rolled up); you were carrying your weathered leather notepad, looking like a beat poet on his way to the cafe. I was going to my car to get a 2:30 lunch, and asked if you were coming out. You said, "sure," as if I had interrupted by inviting you, and when I asked if you were put upon, you said that you weren't quite ready, but would come anyway. What to make of that?

Our first cigarette conversation:
You offered me one of yours; I declined. I made you walk with me to my car, questioning my motives because I mostly expect I declined the offer because I didn't want to accept anything from you (not to be beholden? afraid to get tangibly closer? I'm not sure yet).

Our whole conversation felt as if it was one of those fake conversations I have with my clients as I am walking down the hall before we have a real conversation after the door is closed. Do you understand?

I think we talked weather, my interview for next year's position, the spring banquet. And then I got you. I said, "And the other thing is..." I paused long enough to make you uncomfortable. You shifted back on your heels (dreading? ready and expecting? relieved to have it over with?). "And the other thing is, on my annual self eval..." and I told you of the drama I am anticipating with that. But I got you, Jon! I saw it. And it wasn't even intentional.

Our second cigarette conversation:
After I got back to the office (again) at 5, and busied myself catching up on paperwork for half an hour, you came in (again) and startled me. Every time I see you, it seems my heart pounds insatiably. In any case, we sat with our backs to each other, less than three feet away, and worked (in my case, breathlessly). I packed up and said I was going home, and you agreed and asked if I'd like to smoke first. You went to the bathroom, I dropped off my Netflix envelope in the mailbox, we reconvened at your car. This time, you insisted I take a cigarette (to regain some of what you'd lost by my refusal? to feel tangibly closer?).

We talked about work, meaning, responsibility. This seemed like a closer conversation to something real. I told you the story of why I quit reading tarot professionally. I know you love my stories, and I love telling them, because I am so visual and use my hands to paint the picture. You watch, rapt, and you laugh at the right places, and your eyes watch my eyes when they're not looking back at you. Oh, Jon, so lovely, to feel your gaze as I am weaving words for you...

It was awkward, our parting. They always are. "Have a good night." "I'll see you tomorrow." Then, as I drive by, the longing look from you, and the hand up in acknowledgment, never in a wave.

I wanted to blast music and drive too fast, but I didn't. I sat quietly at the light, not daring to let my eyes wander toward the rear-view mirror.

.

And now the story of our late night:

There was the txting, of course, which you'll find here below. Then I showered and shaved my underarms and legs and plucked my eyebrows and straightened my hair and put on makeup and selected a beautiful matching bra and panty set and wore a shirt that would show some cleavage. I was drunk, yes, and about to get more drunk, as I drove and picked up a six pack before showing up at your house (after driving past twice, not sure it was really yours).

You opened the door and invited me in. Your little cat was there - not black, as I imagined, but white and grey. You offered me wine, we settled on beer instead. Your little cat served his distracting purpose, for a while. Then it was side reels of half-real conversations - your high school yearbooks, old poetry of yours.

Jon, your poetry... I wish it was terrible, so I could move on and never look back, but it dripped with meaning and pain and all the reasons I have ever set pen to paper with moisture at the corners of my eyes. It's beautiful, Jon. And you're beautiful.

I got drunker. You smoked some pot. You recited your poetry for me, I recited a few of yours to you. Eventually, eventually, in a haze I said that I had posted the missed connection and you had missed it and that I have feelings for you which won't die no matter how many times I try to poison them and then, at 3 am, so late, you told me that you couldn't be with me, and something about being friends should be enough, but I'm not sure I heard that last bit correctly.

I drove home, my honor and marriage still intact, if not my dignity. I felt incredibly stupid taking off my push-up bra when I got home.

It wasn't like my fantasy. At first, actually, surprisingly, it was. But the fantasy always ended when it got to the real part, and I don't know if we got to the real part on our late night. I never feel like you're being real with me, just painfully reflecting something real at me. Do you hear me, Jon? You're a false leveler. You fake intimacy because you long for intimacy and you're terrified of intimacy.

I could go on accusing you for hours, but this is already too long of a post, and I need to lay down and try not to think about you as I desperately look for sleep so I can appear somewhat rested in our meeting tomorrow morning. I think I'll preemptively take an ibuprofen to avoid the neck pain of avoiding your face.

Goodnight, Jon. I hope you are sleeping well. Some part of me hopes that you are thinking of me as you lie in bed waiting for tomorrow.

- M.

Connections Missed

Dear Jon -

There was spring banquet. You and my husband were in the room at the same time. I didn't introduce you. Afterward, my husband and I went to the pub and I asked him what he thought of you. He said he didn't even notice you. He was completely oblivious. I asked him why he didn't care. We fought. It was distressing. I want him to care that I have all of this going on inside of me, and it's all going on inside of me around you.

I won't say that it's about you. I don't even know if it's about you, anymore. You say that you could never be with me. I can't be with you, either. I would never cheat on my husband. Never. I just don't understand why these feelings didn't go away when I got married. Shouldn't these feelings have gone away?

I saw a missed connection that I thought could be for me from you. It happened at noon the day after our late night together. But it was in the wrong county. Why would you do that, Jon? Just to add more questions to something that's already been absurdly unsure for me? It probably wasn't you.

I've been thinking about putting you away. I don't fantasize about you anymore. In fact, I try very hard not to.

In less melodramatic news, I got the interview, and it went well. I expect to have an offer this week. That makes my life seem less unsure to me.

I can't stop reading the missed connections - not because I think any of them will have anything to do with me, but because some of them are heartbreakingly beautiful. It's like looking into people's windows at night, catching glimpses of them moving through their lives. They leave the blinds open hoping someone will look in. I do.

I'm going to go to bed, now, and lie down next to my husband.

Stilll drunk (again)

Dear Jon -

I love you. Your poetry just filled me with such love for you. Thank you. Thank you for being vulnerable with me. You say you can't be with me, and I know why. I know, all too well, why you can't be with me. It's 3 AM and I'm going to go seduce my husband, now, but, as I told you, I sincerely hope there are more late nights in our future.

I love you, Jon. I love you, I love you, I love you, I am head over heels in love with you.

More about tonight posted tomorrow, I promise. (How could I forget?)

I love you,

M.

Uhm... Fuck?

Dear Jon -

Surprising everyone, including myself, I did txt you. The conversation:

M: The courage to do things poorly.
J: any thoughts?
M: Yes.
J: I'd like to hear them at some point.
M: Would you?
J: I would. I never know how I communicate and would like your feedback. I like your thoughts: like flowers for the brain sometimes.
M: Drinks?
[Pause]
M: The courage to do things poorly?
J: sorry. working on a peer review due tomorrow. I'll be a couple of hours at least. did you want me to text then or just wait for another time?
M: Txt me when you're done? If I'm up, I'll respond. I have an 8 am class.
J: so do I. effing 8! It's rediculous. you have Kurt at 8, huh I have McMinn.
M: I don't want to do it another time.
J: fair enough. I'll try to get finished soon.

The last time stamp I have is 9:35. So should I txt again? I've showered, put my husband to bed, and am ready to see you. I'm shaved and looking sexy and feeling sexy and you know what? I'm going to fucking confront you. Am I? I think so. Yes, I think so.

You just txted me. Fuck. I'll post again after.

- M.

Drunk (again)

Dear Jon -

You know that interview that I small-talked you about? Yeah, they didn't bother to call and interview me. I have no idea why. I emailed the clinical director at our program and she is being unsupportive. Fucking hell.

I'm drunk, trying to console myself about next year's folly. I am seriously considering txting you, but what would that accomplish? You're probably high or with someone else or going to completely ignore me.

I saw you today at chapel. You talked about how you can't be vulnerable, and it's your fault, and that you wish you would have had the courage to do things badly. Fuck you, Jon. How dare you say that? How dare you say that after all of this? Why couldn't you have had the courage to do things badly with me?

I'm so angry and so tired and I'm so scared about my whole fucking future career that I don't know what to do. Maybe I will txt you, I don't know. I'm so angry. I don't know what to do.

The courage to do things badly. Yes.

Am I supposed to have the courage to do things poorly? Am I supposed to confront you? How can I? I'm married, Jon. I'm married and I'm alone and I'm scared and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm so angry with you. I'm so, so angry.

Jon, please, I beg you, come to me. Just say something to me. I'm not going to be so self-centered as to assume what you said in chapel was about me or directed at me or anything of the sort. I can't very well confront you about that. Jon, please. Please say something to me. Please please please.

Fuck.

Batshit.

Batshit crazy.

I'm gonna go smoke and maybe txt you, I don't know.

- M.

I'm such a coward, I'm not going to txt you.

- M. (again)

"About a week ago..."

Dear Jon -

Today, after our meeting, we went out for our smoking ritual. You started the conversation with, "So, about a week ago..." and my heart stopped. I posted the missed connection about a week ago (it's down, now). I thought for sure that finally you would have seen it and were ready to talk about it. But then you proceeded to tell me a story about your cat.

Jon, I'm hopeless for you.

I didn't touch you today.

I need to give the CD back. I told you I'd give it back today, then today told you that I had forgotten it, but I very much just wanted to keep some connection to you.

Batshit crazy, yes.

- M.

Soundtrack

Dear Jon -

You had a client, then asked me to smoke. I read into your body language and general demeanor that either the client had gone awry or you wanted to talk to me about something important. I think now, though, that you were just being polite or wanted company.

You gave me a disc with a bunch of mp3 albums on it and asked for it back. This was not what I had hoped. I had hoped when you said you were making me a disc that it would be a mix for me. Do people still do that for each other? I certainly could do it for you - there's a soundtrack to this seemingly endless cycle of longing for you.

In any case, tomorrow is Tuesday. I'll have to sit in clinical team getting a stiff neck trying not to look in your direction. And afterward we'll smoke - our ritual, as you say.

Tomorrow I'm going to try to touch you. I don't know where I'll touch you or how. But I'm going to try to touch you.

- M.

As much as I make believe

Dear Jon,

Tomorrow is Monday. That means, if you are at work, I will probably at some point run into you. At least I have small talk fodder - finally got an interview at that site for next year. Maybe we can talk about that and avoid talking about... anything else.

See, the thing is, you've been totally absent from my life, aside from the conversation we had the day after I posted. Maybe you really did see it and have been avoiding me? Or is this my narcissistic reading on a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me? In any case, I'm scared to see you. I always am, but I'm putting more meaning on it because of something I've done (the post) which has probably not affected you in any way.

I'm not feeling eloquent tonight.

I'm about to go to bed and fantasize about you more, but I realized a few days ago that the fantasy is all wrong. You wouldn't grab me and kiss me like that; that's not how it would happen. What happens is that I'm very good at fantasizing all the way up to that point, but not beyond. Why? Why am I so afraid to imagine you kissing me? Why am I so afraid to imagine... anything more? It's easy to imagine what you'd say to me, the look on your face, the way you would move your mouth, the crinkles around you eyes and the direction of your gaze - I have your movements memorized. I know your speech patterns and preferred adjectives (oh, I disgust myself!), but I have no idea how you would actually, if it came down to it, show affection towards me.

I don't remember any physical touch beyond that night.

That night. Yes, I'll have to write about that soon, won't I? I was drunk and high (your fault), and my memory is so hazy, until it got awkward and I asked you to drive me home. I'm glad that we didn't sleep together, and I've always been glad, because I thought there would be a time when we would get to experience each other, unclouded.

This process of writing here has made me alternate madly from being utterly infatuated with you and incredibly furious with you. Am I ready to give you up? I always think so, and then something happens to give me some sort of crazy, fucked up hope.

Last Song lyrics:

giving up's not easy
it's hard enough to say

as much as i make believe
you're not really here with me...

as much as i make believe
something in side of me
has got me hoping got me thinking
who am i to assume

Who am I to assume anything about you? Whether you ever even think of me or not? I felt so beautiful, sometimes, with you. Do you think of the curve of my lips as I think of the way the corners of your mouth tighten? The freckles on your lips - I didn't think that was possible, but it's so endearing. Do you think longingly after my imperfections? I doubt it. I doubt it.

I'll be in the office before 9. You won't be there in the morning, I know, but perhaps in the afternoon.

This letter should have read:

Dear Jon,
When we see each other tomorrow, know that I crave resolution. Please either give me no hope at all or dash all of my hope cruelly with a brick to the head so that I don't have to wonder anymore.
-M.

Drunk

Dear Jon -

I'm drunk. I posted the original missed connection that started all of this, because it was six days ago, and posts only last for a week. I don't want it to be lost, I know that somehow, but I also didn't want to save it to my computer for fear my husband would find it.

I wonder what your plans are for this weekend. I wonder if you'll be alone, in the house you shared with your ex-wife, or if you'll be with friends, or if you'll be with some other lover I have no knowledge of. Some other lover, some other lover, I have no idea what's going on in your life and it could so be true.

I didn't dream of you, when I said I wouldn't, and I never do. I don't know why, because I think of you every night before I fall asleep. I fantasize. The fantasy continues:

We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.

You enter behind me, close the door softly, and walk across the room. You take off your jacket and lay it across the couch. I try to pick up the little cat, but he runs to you, and you smile and sit down. I gingerly rise and cross to stand before you, silent.

The silence drags on, for minutes. The cat is in your lap, on the couch beside you, on your shoulders, and you are intermittently stroking him and trying to settle him down. It seems he is for you also a welcome distraction. I am patient and measuring my breathing, trying not to let me terror show, trying not to let my heartbeat show in my neck or my flush show in my cheeks.

Finally, the cat dashes away, and we both look after him. When it is clear that distractions are over and we must face each other, you turn in my direction and look to the ground. I am still standing before you.

"I never meant for this," you say, and immediately I know your meaning. I am instantly furious, taking this to be a denial, and feel my flush deepen as I shift my weight on my feet.

And then you look up at me. Your eyes, so clear, so pained, so inviting. You are looking into me, trying to dredge up an answer from me. I don't have one.

And suddenly you stand, startling me, grasping my arms in your hands, clutching me. I am afraid, my mouth falls open, and you kiss me.

I can't go on. Not now. Not in this drunken state. I'll go lie down and imagine what happens next and play the scenario out again.

Oh, Jon. I don't know what to do about you. Next week at chapel, you'll be there and I'll be forced to face you. And that will be after our work week Monday and Tuesday. I avoided the office today, in desperate fear of myself and what I would do should I see you. But Monday and Tuesday I'll have no choice, and will you be there? Will you look at me? Look into me? Will you grab my arm and ask me to come with you? Will you clutch me and kiss me? I doubt all of that, but I do sincerely hope for a touch. Your fingertips against the back of my hand, a gentle reassurance.

I accuse you of being a coward, Jon, and you are. You let your fear paralyze you from approaching me or even admitting that I could have been approached. Yet I am also a coward. I harbor these feelings and do nothing. I can't even bear to look at you when we're in the same room. Maybe I'm not so afraid of what you will read on my face as I am afraid that others will instantly know what has (or hasn't) passed between us.

I don't know what to do. I only know that if anything is to be done, it must be before the end of the year, and that is fast approaching. How long will you be there? August? September? That's wishful thinking, I know, but I must wish. I must hope.

Please, Jon, I beg you, if you saw the missed connection or have an inkling for what is still inside me yearning for you, please, please say something to me. Say something. I don't know if we will act on it, or if we should, or if we will never, but I want some validation that it was real, that what was between us was real. Please, Jon, as a final act of kindness, between now and then, find it in your heart to admit to me that this was not all one-sided. Tell me that I was real to you, if only for a moment.

- M.

There was a carrot w4m 26 (Broadripple)

You show up suddenly at school or work, so casual in your old man sweaters. My heart stops, for just a moment, and then I don’t know what to do but smile and keep walking and pass by. You must think me cold, or you think me happy in my marriage, or you think that those stolen moments discussing dreams and existential angst don’t mean anything to me. I so fear and dread those moments together, and yet I long for them. I long for you. During Tuesday morning meetings I can’t even glance in your direction for fear I’ll blush and you’ll read plainly on my face what has become etched onto my heart. I wouldn’t mind for you to see spelled out the loss, but I couldn’t bear for you to find the hope written there, only to deny it.

How dare you, J? How dare you sit with me in the car listening to that damn song over and over again and tell me that there was nothing between us? There was a carrot. There was the potential for something rare and precious. It would have been bitter and uncontrollable and cut by such depths of sorrow, but also healed with so much joy. Such passion and joy - we could have had that.

I came home from training, the day you gave me a ride, and I told everyone I was in love. It was a silly statement made by a girl who felt giddy with possibility, but even after all this time I do not think I lied to them.

At the end of the year, please go away from here. Please spend your year preparing for internship somewhere else, where I won’t have to feel my heart stop as I pull into the parking lot and see you walking to your car, where I won’t have to watch you shiver over a cigarette as you tell me how different we are. We aren’t so different, you and I, only I saw the danger and the heartache ahead on the path and thought it worth walking with you anyway.

I know Broadripple is for her. I know it isn’t for me and never was. But it was the first song you sang to me, and I’ve spent too many afternoons in tears over my guitar to give it back. If somehow you read this, I want you to know Broadripple is mine, now, and every time you hear it I hope you think of the injustice you did me by letting fear paralyze you.

I will haunt you like a ghost

Dear Jon -

Today in our integration class we talked about the importance of letters. I felt perfectly ironic and missed you terribly. I didn't see you at school, today. Tomorrow is Good Friday.

There's so much I want to write to you about. I want to tell you all about my days, the stresses and challenges I'm facing. Perhaps these letters will transform into that, but not yet. For now, I want them to focus on you. I know I never had you, and I never will, and yet I want to cleave to any shred of you I have in my life.

Oh, Jon. You said you'd burn me a CD. Maybe you'll have it for me on Monday. Do you remember when I gave you a copy of Miles Davis's love songs? I wonder if you ever listen to it.

That's all for now. I've got to clean house before my husband gets home. We're having a guest over tonight, which maybe I'll want to tell you about when these letters transition out of you and into me.

- M.

Missed Connection

Dear Jon -

So I've been obsessively reading the missed connections on CraigsList. I'm thinking about doing some sort of research, just for myself or otherwise, determining what sorts of missed connection posts get replied to and why and what the replies are. But I think mostly what I've learned is that there are an incredible amount of very vague posts which people seem to misinterpret in incredible ways.

I've always wondered if I've just imagined everything between us. And you haven't done anything to help with that. Every time I would think there was nothing there, you gave me some sort of hope. I remember the night I confronted you about it, outside the pub smoking. You led me on, only to tell me an hour later there was nothing. Approach, retreat, approach, retreat.

You weren't at work yesterday. I didn't see you at school today. Where are you?

I miss you, Jon. I have started fantasizing about seeing you and having all revealed. The fantasy:

I show up to school, running late as usual, and you are there standing outside the building. When you see me approaching, you come to me in the parking lot and grab my arm.

I look at you with heart pounding and tell you I'm late for class.

You ask me to come with you. Your face is full of dark intensity, sincerity, insecurity. You narrow your eyes when you look at me, then tighten your mouth and look away.

I say yes.

We go to your car, I throw my briefcase and keys in the back, awkwardly move a pack of cigarettes and garbage from the cup holder to have a place to put my coffee mug where it won't spill.

You roll down your window, put a cigarette in your mouth, offer me one. You move slowly, deliberately, with an awkward grace. I say no. You light and drive, being careful not to meet my eyes when you look behind you as you pull out of the parking spot.

You turn on the stereo and skip ahead in songs until Broadripple comes on. My chest tightens and I screw up my face, hanging my head and saying softly, begging, "Not this, Jon." I straighten, determined, and reach for the skip button only to have you stop my hand with yours. "No, Marie, just..." You pause, frustrated and tentative and afraid. And you start to sing. I sit back and close my eyes, feeling the wind in my hair from your open window, letting the sound of your voice sink into me.

We pull into your driveway before the song is over. We sit, as you sing to the end. You turn the car off and there's silence. It seems like forever, but it's only a few moments. The air is tight and thick. We're both holding our breath.

You turn to me, eyes slow-lidded. "Would you like to come in?" you ask. I'm searching your face, looking into the sparkling fear and anticipation there.

"Alright," I say.

We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.

I know what happens next, in the fantasy, but it's still too fresh and frightening to write down. As I write this, it becomes more real. My imagination is so vivid, coupled with the emotion you've always instilled in me... The fantasy is innocent, you know. It plays in my mind with the tortured language of unrequited love and longing, but it's not about flesh or blood or carnality. Maybe I'm too much of a coward to imagine you and I that way, or maybe you've always been so sensual to me. Something happens when I'm with you and all of my senses are heightened and narrowed to focus solely on you. Being with you is what art feels like. I wrote a song for you, do you remember?

My husband will be home, soon, and so I'm going to go play my guitar for a little while to get it out of my system. I feel like everybody can see that I'm blown apart over you. I want to endeavot to put most of me back together for him.

Go to school tomorrow. Stop me on my way in and ask me to come with you. Or, if not that, look at me, brush past me, and smile sarcastically. I long to exist for you. I long to touch you.

- M.

Graceland

Dear Jon,

I went ahead and posted the missed connection on CraigsList. I was eloquent and angry and damning and everything I wanted to be in the post, and yet I'm still unsatisfied. Worse than that, I'm terrified you've found it! Today at work when you walked in, my heart leapt into my throat. When you asked if I wanted a cigarette, I thought for certain it was a trick to get me alone and confront me about it. And then, as we smoked, I tried to keep the conversation light, to act so nonchalant, but my heart was pounding. I was flushed, did you notice? We finished our cigarettes and stood there, talking, and then I asked if you were ready. You paused, lowered your eyes. Resigned, you said, "Yeah, I'm ready." Maybe you did find it.

Later in the afternoon, looking for music with expression, and you suggested Casiotone's version of Graceland. You recited the lyrics:

She'll say losing love
is like a window in your heart,
'cause everybody sees
you're blow apart

I couldn't breathe, and changed the subject. It was so poignant and I felt so caught off guard.

You see, the point of this - me, writing here, for you, who'll never read it - is that it's not enough. The week before I got married and I begged you to be my reason not to and you told me we never had anything to begin with - it wasn't enough. The late night txting, the broken and lonely nights spent looking at your Facebook profile pictures... Fuck, Jon, I sound batshit crazy over you, and maybe I am. Maybe I am. The missed connection wasn't enough, whether you read it or not. This blog won't even be enough, but at least it's ongoing. It'll be a place for me to fucking shout into the ether instead of over my guitar or into a half empty glass of rum and diet coke.

I'm tired and I won't sleep. Instead I listen to Broad Ripple, over and over again, the first song you sang - I can't say to me and I won't say at me - while I was there. And now I'm so bitter over it. Because it's about your ex-wife. It's for your ex-wife. You loved her and she left and now you're broken and you're a sulking coward. I saw so much more in you, but I don't even know if it was real.

Oh, Jon. Tomorrow morning is the team meeting where I'll sit in the same room with you for two or three hours and try desperately not to glance in your direction.

I miss you so much, and I never had you.

Will we smoke together after the meeting? We'll sneak out behind the building so I can watch you shiver over your cigarette and you'll tell me how different we are and I will desperately try not to let on how scared and alone and desperate I feel. Jon. Jon. Jon.

Batshit crazy, yes.

Graceland lyrics:

She comes back to tell me she's gone,
as if I didn't notice
as if I didn't know my own bed,
as if I'd never noticed
the way she brushed her hair from her forehead...

I did come back to tell you that I am gone. Isn't that what the missed connection was about? But the worst part, the part that keeps me up like this in tears and keeps those fucking songs (Broad Ripple, Broad Ripple, Broad Ripple) in my ears and in my head, the part I wish so desperately that I could tear out, is the hope. I am gone. I'm married. And so why, why, why am I so wounded with these gashes of longing for you?

I hate myself for that hope. I never want to be unfaithful to my husband. And yet I don't know what I'll do when the year is over and there are no more meetings for me to suffer through with a crick in my neck from turning my head away from your side of the room. Jon, please leave forever and never come back. Jon, please, please, please don't go.

It's almost one. I'll see you in eight hours. But for now, a cigarette and some sleep.

It's raining, tonight. When we stand together under the eve behind the building, I forget the rest of the world exists behind the blanket of rain around us. I see only you.

I won't dream of you. I never do.

- M.