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.