a letter

"and no, I'm not angry, / I think that I'm just feeling sore / 'cause the truth is that you just don't like me that much anymore"

I Just Don't Think That You Like Me That Much Anymore - Leith Ross

I guess it's just that I wanted you. I wanted you so bad I thought I would cry from the feeling. It was a weird juxtaposition -- sitting in your humid room, making small talk, listening to the a.c. hum -- but inside I was dying.

I guess it's just that I wanted you. I don't want people. I don't think I've ever wanted anyone. But I wanted you.

Not just for the touch, of course. I wanted to go to the farmer's market with you. I wanted to share an umbrella and buy a big container of strawberries. I wanted to have a little life with you for the three months we were blessed with. I wanted to fall asleep on your shoulder as our friends began to leave the party. I wanted you to be my person, the one I was always with, the one who got in the car no matter where we were going. I wanted you to tell me I was beautiful. I wanted to eat family dinner at your house, and help you walk your dog, to play music with your dad, to listen to all your favorite songs. I wanted to go to museums. I wanted to hold your hand.

I wanted someone to want me. Willingly, earnestly, with a pink blush intensity -- all consuming and beautiful -- and I thought you did. Wanted me, that is. I'm not sure why I thought that, though. I spent half the time begging for your attention, and the other half crying that you wouldn't see me. Leaving split my chest in two. I honestly hope you don't care. It would help it all make sense a bit more.

The day after the breakup (can I even call it that? We were hardly together) I went with my photography class to Coney Island and saw the ocean and thought I would drown in the sheer vastness of it. It was so hot that I could watch the sunburn spread across my arms. I wanted to bottle that day. I wanted to breathe the sea air for every second of the rest of my life. I thought I could live on that boardwalk forever, above one of the little stores, and never go anywhere else.

I wonder if you'll ever get your disposable camera developed. We both bought one. I took all those pictures of you, and I think there might be a couple of me on yours. If you do get it developed -- a few years down the line, maybe at your college darkroom -- and it brings you back to that beautiful April evening, send the pictures to me. I would give anything to go back there, to watch you laugh and eat ice cream in an empty Chelsea Market; when we only just started to run out of time; before I fell for you.