Merry Christmas

You wanted to be my friend.

I think we both know you wanted to have your carnal way with me too, but I know you’ll never admit that.

Friendship is such a foreign thing to someone who generally “distrusts everything that breathes.”
But you… dammit.

I’ve been writing as long as I remember. (Remember why?) And yet, I can’t capture you. I can’t figure out words that depict the right shades of red, the depths of our purples, the brightness of our yellows. And that’s not me.

Speechless, I guess.

Remember months ago when I told you I felt “full”? I still do. Maybe even more so. But it’s different. There’s a weight, a gravity to it, that makes me feel centered. That makes me feel tethered to the Universe.
To you.

I can’t sleep on your side of the bed. Which is funny considering we’ve never slept in my bed. But I think maybe I hope that one day I’ll roll over and you’ll be there so I can put my cold feet on you to warm up.
You’re here of course, even when you’re not.

You’re in the cards and handwritten notes I keep by my bed, that I usually read every night before falling asleep. You’re in the pictures in my camera, and the Lemonheads I still can’t bring myself to eat. You’re in the silver CD in my car, and #15 on repeat, that one line we love always making me tear up. You’re in my ear when I don’t put on my makeup in the morning. You are 73 of the 100 text messages in my phone, 11 emails in my inbox that’s just barely full. You’re around. Always. I make sure of that.
Always.

Our conversations stay on repeat in my head. I hear your laugh internally in my most chaotic moments, and I feel still.
And that’s what I prayed for.

You know I’m gonna forever maintain that you seduced me of course. But that’s neither here nor there.

Even when you think you’re broken, I think you’re beautiful. And I say that, not as a person who has shared your lips, but as someone who has listened to your pain. It kills me, you know, because I wanna fix it. Because if I could, I’d make sure you never knew another ounce of pain in your life. I can’t control that of course. So… I’m just here. Always.

Because I am your friend. Because I love you. Because even though you seduced me (hahaha), I know you’d never take advantage of me. Because I know your heart. Because I recognize so much of myself in your soul.

It’s profound really, the kind of foundation friendship can lay, if you let it. If someone would have told me so many moons ago that this is where we’d be…

Somehow you’ve slipped through the cracks. You know I can’t even contemplate future travel plans now without you in mind? It’s absurd really. A friend sent me a link to a vacation package for Greece in the spring. I immediately imagined holding your hand through the streets, watching your skin darken under the sun. (Did I send it to you?)
There’s a picture attatched to one of the links. Its a cliff, completely vertical, dangling over blue waves. An edge. Close to oblivion. Or the promise of everything perfect. Whichever your heart believes. I wanted to go, and stand there, see which way the wind moved me. I’ve got a pretty good idea.

It’s cold now, and I know you have on 19 layers and long socks pulled up to your knees. You’re in bed, more than likely, snuggled underneath the down comforter. Maybe you’re working. Maybe you’re reading. Maybe you’re laying on your side of the bed trying to figure out if what you’re writing is eloquent enough.

My hands feel strange when not occupied by your skin. The silence has an awful discord to it when not infused with the melodies of your voice. I’m texting you as I’m writing of you, and I can hear the things you’d say in my head.

Sometimes when I can’t quite seem to put a name to what I’m feeling, I turn quiet. I sit perfectly still. I call you to the forefront of my mind, where you never seem to quite stray from, and I listen. And I’m well. Better. FanTAStic.

I’m invested in your happiness because you deserve it. Because you were my friend before there was ever talk of Spain, back when it was a you and a me, no plural pronouns, my desire for your happiness was exponential. Still is. Maybe moreso?

This is the closest I’ve come to a love letter. I’m not at war or anything (SO ridiculous) and it’s not coming in the mail but it’s genuine. It’s sincere. It’s from the heart. It’s one of very few things I know for sure.

You are red on black and white. You are stillness in chaos. You are life amidst destruction. You are song within disharmony. You are Coltrane, Etta. Overjoyed. You are fire in the rain. You are home in foreign territory.

And that’s just perfect (for me).

Feel free to return to your regularly scheduled sweet potato fries and insulting of Middle Eastern jewelers.

Love,
La