April 13, 2009
I felt nauseous trying to fall asleep last night. A wave of heat crashed over me when I was thinking of the last times you actually spoke to me.
You deleted that message I sent you once you got it, didn’t you?
You didn’t even read it, did you?
I don’t know when I actually ended up falling asleep. After three? After four? Well, I woke up at seven, and maybe it’s because I’m sick or maybe it’s because of what I did to you, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to get up this morning at all.
I could have just wasted the day away in bed. Someone would have noticed. Someone would have said something. Right? I know you would have.
I wrote two poems last night. They were—about how I felt. And I have an idea for a third. These are all things I would be telling you.
If you still talked to me.
Then again, I wouldn’t have written the poems in the first place if it weren’t for how I felt last night. I wouldn’t have painted my nails a deep blue, and I wouldn’t have wanted to cry when I smelled you on my sheets.
The weekend was easy enough. I was surrounded by my family, and at night I slept in a strange bed that used to be familiar once. It isn’t anymore.
And then I came back to school here, and—you should have been here. When I was last here, you were here. It doesn’t make sense. You’re still here, in my sheets, on my pillow, in that green comforter.
It was hard trying to fall asleep last night. Knowing I couldn’t talk to you, I hadn’t talked to you. And I wondered, is he falling asleep? Sleeping sound? Have you found peace like it says at the end of Covered in Rain?
I feel lonely that I can’t ask you these questions, that I can’t ask anybody these questions. They’d look at me like I was crazy or weird.
All I have for now is these letters. They will be addressed to no one, and they will be signed accordingly—by no one. But we all know to whom they are addressed and from whom they are written. It is no secret, no secret at all.