An Open Letter to the Man I (Still) Love

It’s been over a year and a half since the last time we held hands. It’s not even the handholding that I miss most though. It’s not the interrupted conversation kisses, the lovemaking, or even the Thanksgivings up in Oregon with your family. It’s the fact that I lost my best friend. That’s not me idealizing anything – that’s just the truth.

Time

I pulled out all of my old pictures this morning. Printed, not digital. Remember when we used to do that? Pick up our photos from Walgreens or Long’s or Costco. Remember the tangible? The things we could feel with both our hands and our hearts. I think I am addicted to nostalgia. So I look, knowing even the good times will hurt, too.

A Saturday in Santa Cruz

He rescues me in ways he doesn’t even realize. With his warm voice and sweet kisses. Like harmony and honey. I watch the Ferris wheel along the boardwalk spin round and round. A colorful pinwheel surrounded by the scent of pink cotton candy and kettle corn. We are belly laughs and rose gold cheeks. I cannot fully describe this feeling in my stomach. Something like joy and nostalgia and I’m looking at him and realizing he is my future.

Fading Lights & Ferris Wheels

You tasted like beer every time you kissed me. The cheap kind, because that’s all we could afford. “I’m going to make you my wife one day.” It’s so easy to make promises of forever when you are so young. But I believed every word, listening to the waves crash in the darkness; a satiation I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. You were terrible for me, but I recall you so beautifully.

What We Don’t Talk About

Now there’s talk of militarizing the moon. Stripping away whatever purity is left, maybe we are all just broken angels with busted wings. Or maybe all of the angels have come and gone, the devils live here now.