On Love, In Distance

Dear Eve,

I wish I could blame this on alcohol. I wish I could blame this on drugs. I wish I could blame this on the media and violent videogames and ignorant music like what your little brother listens to.

And I don’t know how seriously you take my words,

But the truth is I can only blame you and me (“us” I guess it could be called) for what we say and do and dance to and steal. Thick as thieves. In the thick of it. Thick skulled.

I think there would be no question about feelings if I spent even a minute more at your side on the couch, maybe just watching the news, the dog on his bed snoring tragic, paper-thin dreams of car chases and digging up the dead cat you buried last July and rabbits who are just a little too fast.

I roll the idea of you around in my head, tumbling bells in a shiny tin can; you sing metallic between my ears for days on days and never once chime out of key.

I guess what I’m saying is maybe I miss you, maybe I love you. I don’t know… it’s getting harder and harder to tell. It’s difficult to be in so many places at once these days. My body is beginning to fail me.

Should that worry me as much as it is?

Eevee, Eve’ning, Eve’r-So-Sweet:

I hope I never have to see you again.

I hope I see you every single day of my life.

Post Script; A Desperate Plea: Why won’t you just come home?

—

Dear Jamison,

If we are blaming it on the alcohol, drugs, etc, proceed to part one.

If we are blaming it on sometimes only having half a heart, on loneliness, on the warmth of a body tucked in next to yours at night, proceed to part two.

If it is neither of the above, proceed to part three.

Part one:
Jamie, baby boy, go to sleep. The sun has the beautiful habit of rising and there is so much grass you’ve yet to walk on.

Part two:
Don’t you think I’d love that? Don’t you think I could wax poetic for ages on the slightest chance that there is a boy who fell in love with my words, and now is merely waiting to fall in love with the ends of my hair tickling his chest while we listen to pirated copies of __insert cool band here__? Be that boy; be orange juice with pulp, the kind I never liked as a kid but now think is pretty great. Be stained glass. Please, Jamie. Be bitter almonds.

Don’t you think that shooting stars exist for a reason?
So we can make bullshit wishes and hope for happy endings?

Part three:
And oh, I ache.
I ache.