Printemps (2)

May 08, 2008 - 14:39 PM PST

I don't like love letters: they're predictable, the words that form them are always the same. A bit like laws: long, unreadable, depressing. Betraying or evoking emotions you would rather not betray or evoke.

I think of writing you a letter, sometimes. Of course I have no address, so where would I send it? Even if I did have an address, I wouldn't send it, because you don't strike me as wanting to receive a letter from me. Any letter, let alone a love letter. What's worse, I couldn't write you 'any' letter - if I did write you, it would be a predictable, heart-wrenching love letter.

One that starts with I miss you sometimes, that explains that this missing you involves a physical ache, a deep, intense longing that only intensifies if I happen to catch the sunset on my way home from school. I would tell you how I long to touch you, but how, if you were next to me right now, I wouldn't, to preserve my dignity. Because if I did, I would squeeze the living breath out of you, press my lips roughly against you, roughly and savagely and carelessly.

People are selfish by nature. People are egotistic. I am, too. I think about how 'I' miss you, and why you don't talk to 'me'. If I wrote to you, it would be to quench and quell these unsettled, untameable feelings.

People are selfish and love letters are predictable. I won't write you any letters, and I won't think about you. Or you in relation to me.