I shouldn't be writing this... I'm not going to link it, of course, but I feel bad even writing it... I know there might be a few people who go digging around and find it, and I don't really want that -- I don't really want that at all. But there are a few things I have to say, even if I'm just talking to myself.
I'm in love with you. Not madly, not passionately, just quietly and completely. In silence.
A month and five days ago, you made love with me. It wasn't mad and passionate. It was quiet, and complete.
I think of you all the time. You haven't left my mind for years. I wake up and I think about you. I go to sleep and I think about you. I walk down the street and I think about you. In silence.
People never understood. Robbie's called you every name in the book, accused you of every sin in the book... Dave told me once that what you lack in looks you make up for in brains... And then there are the multitudes who just think you're another one of Carolyn's homos. You're the town slut, you're a user, a skeezer, what-the-fuck-ever... Your dick isn't big enough; you're an elitist coffeehouse snob; you're a drunk; you're a cheat...
I never cared about any of that. I never understood the importance of any of it.
I don't know why I love you. I know it isn't for looks or brains or dick size or reputation. It isn't anything that shallow. When I met you, you made me smile. I don't know why. I don't remember what you said, or why I smiled. I remember you had beautiful eyes and a smile that kind of lit up the room.
I don't know much about your life, I suppose. I know a little bit about where you came from and all that, but just little facts here and there. I don't know anything about your relationships, except the one with Robbie. I don't know anything about your friends or... or anything... I know your little habits: taking ten showers a day; making neat little stacks of mail and then leaving the stacks all over the place; shaking your damned keys; talking above people's heads without them realizing it; listening to shitty AM-Gold music... I know how you move: like you've always got someplace to go, even though I don't always think you do. I know you always seem to know a little about everything; you're a little like Yahoo! or something: type in a key phrase and you've got a match. I know you're too smart to be wasting your talents on being a Food Service Professional. I know some things you like: tacky shirts, and Neil Diamond, and good food, and Leo, and British humor, and one-liners, and all kinds of technical things I don't really understand, and David Lynch.
Sometimes I think I know you very well. Certainly better than most. And certainly better than those charming Binghamtonians who have such lovely things to say about you. Other times, I realize just how much of yourself you really hide, how much I don't know...
"I like mysteries... You're a mystery..." --Blue Velvet
I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life with you, trying to figure out what you're thinking in those moments when you're talking about music or food or whatever, and I can hear the gears turning a completely different direction. Many times, I keep up with your little twists and turns, but not always. You fascinate me. You are a mystery. Not one I'd like to solve, but just one I could happily investigate for a lifetime without ever coming to any real conclusions. Except that I love you. I came to that one a long time ago.
I miss you.
I crave you.
I suppose my feelings for you are a little bit obsessive. Sometimes I pick up your little habits and sayings just to feel a little closer to you. Needless to say, this pisses Robbie off. Sometimes I write these long, rambly journal entries about you, about things we used to do together, things we've talked about... I admire you; I smile to think of the little things... And I think of the little things a lot.
I think you do too... You remember things about me that nobody else would ever bother with. You remember discussions we had years ago. You remembered me giving you the stupid fucking Starbucks mug, when *I* didn't even remember that -- and Jason, I remember EVERYthing. I think you brought me with you when you moved, as I bring you with me almost everywhere I go.
Since we saw each other last month, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. It's become sort of unhealthy, I suppose. I MISS you. I CRAVE you. I want to be near you. I want to share my life with you: working, sleeping, eating, watching TV, going out, just plainly sitting around and thinking... I want to share my thoughts with you; take you places with me, show you all of the beautiful things I've seen all by myself. I want to drive with you at night, out into the middle of nowhere, and kiss you under the stars.
I suppose, with time, the longings will fade -- not stop, but fade.
I've stopped having sex with Robbie. We've been together twice -- or three times? -- since you and I were together. And it doesn't feel right. I pretend he's you. Not purposely, I don't think. But it feels better when I'm thinking of how gently you touched me, and how I could have lain with my head against your shoulder forever. Robbie doesn't feel right to me anymore. I love him. I loved the sex too. But... he isn't you.
I miss your body... By now I should be used to long absences, but there was something so enchanting about laying beside you for hours, just running my fingers up and down your chest. I remember the way my hand fit over yours, how yours was just a little bigger than mine, and almost the same shape, and it looked so perfect...
I think you planned what happened that morning. I think we both did. I hoped things would happen exactly the way they did. I still can't believe you walked in and put Savage Garden on the freaking CD player. Part of me is still convinced you couldn't possibly remember with so much detail the things we did together -- like listening to Savage Garden and making out until I thought my whole body would evaporate into steam -- but occasionally I think I underestimate the place that little things like that have in your life. I was so tired, and I couldn't really sleep, but I remember holding you and closing my eyes and whispering with my mind, "Make love to me?" And you did.
It wasn't the sex that shook the skies in the two days I was in Asheville. You turned my body into water and fireworks. But it was just the sight of you, walking next to you, talking to you, knowing I could reach out and touch you and you'd be standing right there, seeing your smile... I love you. I am so in love with you. And I didn't say it until I was walking away from you; not because I was scared to, but because there was no need. I know you knew. And I knew you love me too.
I miss you.
I don't want to be without you.
I have difficulty saying all of this. It doesn't seem right to talk about you much at all. I don't email you often, and the letters I write you are just... kind of shallow, not really very important. I always feel like I'm missing so much. You take words away from me. And I enjoy silence. You are present even in your absence, and that is enough. In your company, I have always been comfortable with our silences. You are the only person I've ever been able to share silence with. There is so much unspoken, and so much that is shared in that. Writing you, telling you trivial things about my day, about my life and work and Robbie and Binghamton -- it seems like a waste of breath and cyberspace. Saying I love you seems so cliché. How can I say I love you when people say that to each other every day? I wonder how many people have told you they love you... I wonder how many of them have griped about you when your back was turned.
I've seriously been considering a move to Asheville. I'm applying at the college there. They have a creative writing program there. Not that majoring in creative writing is going to get me any sort of a job, but I'm good at it and I'd like to be better. There are a lot of preparations I'd have to make. I'd have to learn to drive; I'd have to save a lot of money; I'd have to find an apartment and a job there.
I'd have to explain myself to everyone. And how could I possibly tell my friends and family I'm moving nearly a thousand miles away to be near a person who I could probably never have any conventional relationship with? How could I explain that I consider you my closest friend when we barely talk? It was bad enough telling everybody that I'd hopped a bus to North Carolina because a man I hadn't seen in almost two years sent me a five-word email; that I didn't know your address or phone number, but that I knew I'd find you. Are you insane? That was about the only response I got.
I know you didn't really expect me to show up in Asheville. I think part of you knew I would. And I think part of you knows I'd drive myself absolutely crazy for months saving up money and all of that because you sort of casually mentioned I ought to move to Asheville. But you never really "casually mention" anything. It's one of the things I love most about you.
What would I do once I got there? We can't have a relationship, I don't think. It would fuck us both up. And yet, at the same time, I can't envision myself having a relationship with anybody else. I'd have to prepare myself for seeing you with other people. I think I'm well on my way to being okay with that. I mean, it's not like I've really got any say in the matter anyway -- it's not like I ever have, or ever would. The only person I could hurt by being insecure and jealous is myself. I am very secure with my place in your life. I haven't always been. But I've been calling Robbie my best friend for six years, and how could I possibly be secure with ANYTHING? I am okay about things now. Not great, but okay. I think I'd be okay if I never slept with you again, although I'd really kind of like to. I think I'd be okay if you were in a serious relationship with somebody for a very long time -- like Drew, for instance, although Drew and I never hit it off. There are things I need from you, but a boyfriend/girlfriend-type-thing isn't one of them.
I'm still thinking about it. Still seriously considering. I've started saving money in the jar my mom gave me labelled "COFFEE," just like yours that says "JAVA." Maybe I'll just forget the whole thing and go back to sending you Christmas cards and the occasional "hi, I'm moving and this is my life summed up since I last talked to you" letter. Maybe I won't. I would like to be nearer to you. You are never very far from me, but I would like to see you sometimes. And I'd like to share things with you that cannot be shared long-distance: like blue skies and ice cream and movies and... and other things that are sort of beautiful and all the more so when we're together.
I'm happy now, for the first time in a long time. I feel very much like myself again; not so much like I'm trying to impress anybody. I have become quite strong, quite independent. I've become a lot more aware of myself. I like myself a lot, actually. I'd like to share that with you.
The thing I love most about you, Jason, is your silence. What I don't know about you, but what I kind of sense. The words you don't say. The way you manipulate the whole world without rippling the surface, and all I can do is guess at what exactly you're doing and how deep your plans go. The way you close your eyes when you kiss me, but I know how pretty your eyes are underneath. The way you make me wonder, and the way you let me know I'm right. I don't think I'll send this letter to you. It would be kind of like throwing a giant rock into a calm lake -- a lake we both know is there. You know me. For the most part, you know what's going on in my head. You know my feelings for you. What's the point of breaking the silence?
I miss you.
I miss you.
I have seen you, and I love you.
I miss you.
All my love,
Yours, ~Carolyn*
"Jason, I will never understand you."
"Ah, but you do."
--me and you, the day before I left for college.
"...in this silence I believe I have seen you..." --Delirium and Sarah McLachlan