Samantha.

My writing these days has transformed into conversations. With a person. Previously, I wrote to a ghost, to myself, to an empty space; now I write to her and this is the first time I have written about her because writing about her leaves a trace. It is a symbol that she has a level of significance that requires a commitment to paper (as this was, originally): a physical reminder of what was when/if this all comes crashing down. It necessitates a concerted effort to destroy, thus, leaving another reminder. Writing to her requires brief moments that are easily erased with a few swipes and the reminder that I delete people for a reason and no one ever makes it back in. There is a difference; and I have decided to cross the line, with resolve, that forces me to make the distinction.

To her, I write text messages that describe my surroundings with the same linguistic intent that I would employ in a poem. I make my stories poignant, vivid, and light-hearted. I write emails (ha! oh, the emails…) that confess a level of honesty that has historically not been well received. She likes them. And responds with the same fervor.

About her, I write this. And other words that I am afraid to say. I will write of her smile and the spaces between her teeth. The night I told her the freckles on her forehead were more like stars than islands, and how I was going to originally write about stars, but I hadn’t met her yet and had no imagination. She makes me feel ok about being crazy and I make her feel ok about her flawed organs. We are both nervous about everything and that provides an ironic comfort. For both of us, neither can believe.

I am not casual with her. I have a hesitancy. The road has been long and littered with potholes; I cannot afford more broken parts. I need my emotional safety to be corroborated. And this, her, is a risk.

I will–undoubtedly, eventually–fall in love with her.

And I think that might be ok.

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3 comments

    1. Thank you for the compliment. However, I won’t be participating in the Yeah Write challenge. I just don’t have the time or mental energy to dedicate to reading SO MANY submissions (frankly, I don’t see how anyone with a full-time job and an active life does it). When I read, a post I like to thoroughly read it and comment on specific aspects of it. I did that for a few months and realized that after reading about 10 entries, I starting obligatorily skimming. It’s not fair for me to expect people to read my post when I don’t take the time to read theirs. And if I do read the post, I want to read it with the same enthusiasm with which I would want someone to read mine. So, I guess I’m basically saying I’m burnt out. If it were a smaller group with a more personalized interaction, I would be all about it. But it’s not, so…

      1. Your response to Cynthia’s comment saddens me a little because I created yeah write specifically for writers like you: thoughtful, innovative, small group-minded. But I certainly agree with your overall point and, though you won’t be returning to my community, I will continue to wait by my inbox with anticipation for notifications of new posts coming from you. Thank you for your honesty.

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