Love letter # 144
‘I was wrong’ doesn’t cut it. I was careless, I was blind, I was starving – none of these. They are but words piled on wounds, vain restitution. Yet what I will say is this: this I did not intend, nor foresee. You may not believe me – that I must accept. It is my part of the fall out. You thinking ill of me.
How vain is that? Me still wanting you to like me.
But that’s how it all started, right? My craving your tenderness – the wilful, irresistible delusion that a kiss will somehow cover up the cracks. I was hungry for that belief, aching for something external to salve the internal; and even though I knew it was just hormones and optimism to the rescue, I flung out a hand, took that life rope – pulled you into the sea.
I did not want you to drown with me. I hoped you would show me how to swim. I thought maybe you knew of a beach somewhere.
No I didn’t – I just loved that you loved me. I was flat out flattered. Eyes full of fire will warm even the most guarded heart, will disarm the surgeons of thought long enough to allow the patient to pretend a little longer. Bad for me. Even worse for you.
Ego puts a pretty spin on things. Looks for excuses. Writes shit like this. (Vanity is the author of its own self-loathing.) Yet even knowing this, I still have to say I’m sorry – because the one thing that is true is that you gave me joy and I gladly accepted it. For a while everything was sheer beauty.
I think I can handle you not liking me but what would be unthinkable is if our separate agonies conspired to rewrite our shared history. Hate me if you must – blame me for every goddam thing – but please don’t let your memory be trashed. It was good. Incredibly good. And it always will be. If you let it.