Just when you think you're doing okay,

just when you think your life might finally be headed in the right direction,

someone from your past walks by in the grocery store.

They don't have to be someone who was particularly special or important to you or your life at any point.

They don't even have to be a friend.

Regardless of who they are,

they never fail to remind you that your life is not actually ok--

it's in shambles,

and suddenly that oh-so-genuine smile on your face

cuts into you like so much shattered glass,

because your life sucks,

and nothing you have done up to this point can actually change it at the end of the day.

whenever I meet someone new, I inevitably check their limbs for scars.

they are almost always there, some solitary little wisps, some like a cross-hatching, a pattern, a score...

...and I find that the stories written there are irresistible, and the wounds run deeper than I can kiss.

I always fall for the broken ones, whose scars travel further than I've ever been.

I dreamed of going to a ball once, all in red and gold--like Settareh from the old tales.

Only, I had no pari to help me.

My veil was secondhand, my gown plain, and my anklets of paste and plating instead of diamonds and gold.

But there was this boy, you see.

Not a prince, not the captain of a ship or a faerie lord, not a warrior, a healer or a mage...just a boy.

And I had the barest will-o’-the-wisp’s hope that he would dance with me.

My dearest James,

There are two books sitting on the pillow next to mine--the side of the bed that was once yours. I finally dug them out of storage a week ago, and now they sit, waiting for me to open them.

I’ve been avoiding them.

I know they are beautiful--how could they not be, when you have chosen them?

I know that, tucked inside each cover, there is a note for me in which you explain your choice.

That is as far as I got today, that note.

I opened a book, read that single sentence in your neatly haphazard handwriting, and closed it again, because it made me smile and want to kiss you.

I wonder if I will ever be able to read them.

The notes, the choices, the books--they are painful tokens of the regard you once held for me. I don’t want to disturb the perfection of their crisp pages and un-creased spines, for they are all I have left of you that is rightfully mine. They may yet find their way into a box for the keeping of things that remind me of you.

I fear the day that I am finally able to open each book and strive past those little notes, and read the stories you chose for me. I fear that day, for it might mean that my love for you will have been stifled--buried--just enough for a sad smile instead of a broken heart. A whispered song, when it was once the truest thing I have ever known.

Forgive me for these two books I may never read, for I believe this truth to be worth more than a story, unrequited though it may be.

Forgive me for needing something to sleep to, now that you’re gone.

Love always,

~Rue

I used to wake up every morning with you in my bed.

I would stroke your hair and kiss you as many times as I dared--on your cheek, on your neck, on your temple, in your hair.

I almost had to force myself to leave the bed every morning, leave the warmth and scent of you, leave the sound of your heartbeat and the safety of your arms around me.

Even as I moved about in the darkness, my eyes were drawn to you, and, no matter how little sleep I’d gotten, the sight of you would make me smile.

When there was no time left for lingering, I would ask you for a hug and a kiss goodbye.

And, every morning as I left, I would kiss you, and whisper “I love you.”

Sometimes, you would smile in your sleep when I did.

And, every time, I held hope that you would whisper it back.

July 4, 2015

Bell Island

Dear James,

There’s a place on this river where, even when the water is high, the sure-footed can move from rock to rock and stay dry.

I’m not quite that sure-footed, but there’s just something about making your way through the water, learning how and where to place each step, learning to let your body carry you.

I made my way back and forth, perhaps a dozen times. I went further now and then, deeper in the water. It was glorious.

Even with so many people about, the churn of the water made it quiet--peaceful even.

But when I would stop, all I could think about was how wonderful it would be if you were here to share it with me.

The sky is gray, with the scents of earth, greenery, and water everywhere.

Just how we like it.

Lovely, but...lonely without you.

We could walk, wade, climb, and swim. Silly or sombre, it matters not. All that matters is that you would be here, walking with me once again. It wouldn’t be our first walk in the water on a cloudy day...

Ah, it’s raining now.

Remember our first walk in the rain?

It was an afternoon, a day in the rain really. I think that was the first day I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright.

Remember our last walk in the rain?

I was blind, and in pain, and you took my hand and led me safely down long blocks, across wide streets, and up several flights of stairs.

Not once did you let me stumble, not once did you let go.

Do you remember, love?

Do you remember, you who once walked with me?

I remember.

I remember, and, though no one may ever acknowledge it, you were once my mate, and you walked the long road with me.

All my love,

~Rue

1. I love to go rock-climbing.

2. I'm teaching myself to hand-embroider.

3. I'm in love with my best friend.

4. I'm a terrible shot with a pistol.

Well, this has certainly been interesting.

This reminds me of the game played in the movie Memoirs of a Geisha--a group of people were at an onsen, and they decided to play a game called "Truth and Lies." Each player was to tell one true story and one false story. If the guesser guessed correctly, the teller had to drink, and vice versa.

Prove me wrong.

I don’t want another box full of memories, shut away in the back of a closet somewhere.

All I can do with that is open it from time to time, and try not to cry over how little is left to me.

I don’t want another fading recollection of a dream to look back on.

All I can do with that is hold what shreds are left to myself at night when I can’t sleep from the loneliness.

I don’t want another handful of wishes that will fly away once I’ve finally unclenched my fingers from the sheer agony of hoping for so long.

I don’t want another beautiful future to be taken away, leaving me to mourn what cannot be.

Three years I give you, because I know in three years, you’ll be gone.

Prove me wrong.