To the Boy With Tree Trunks as Thighs,

You were there. Always there. You were a constant. I could look to you and point at you and think, "Yes. Him. That boy over there in the frayed shorts is the reason I'm heterosexual. Isn't he great? Watch him glow."

And oh wow, did you glow. You were funny like me and paranoid like me and loud like me. I wanted to be around you all the time. 

We laughed at each other and everyone said we belonged together. We were a special kind of seventh grade affection known as "meant-to-be." I believed them and you must have too. 

Boy, the thing is, I truly believe I would have married you. We could have kissed and touched our way into our twenties. You would have popped the big question, and I wouldn't have been sure, and I would have said yes anyway. We would have three kids. Every year on Easter, I would have dressed a big ham and felt very proud when I watched you cut into it. That is how it should have been. 

But you left west. It wasn't anybody's fault. You left and I got left and two weeks later I noticed a girl with long hair who smelled real nice. Her eyes were round like bowls. 

And suddenly, I was dealing with the sexuality crisis I should have discovered about ten years into our marriage. I don't blame you for keeping me in the dark. I wish it could have lasted longer.