Marilee

I took the time to sit and write you a letter, and took a little longer to throw it away. Writing is like bloodletting, some ancient way of curing a wound. But it will never go away and it will only get worse. Enough ink just might kill you.

My wastebasket is filling up. Thoughts and prayers and voodoo curses, and all I want is to look you in the eye. Could I say out loud the things I say on paper? There are things you can do, placement and form, space, theoretically I could use these to my advantage. Yet I have no advantage, my side is as empty as my pen. I guess the question is, could I make you listen longer than I could make you read?

On my wall there is a calendar. I cross the days off in red, working toward a circle I have yet to draw. I believe you will find it in yourself to come back. I like to think that I would be that reason, but I know better. I know better, and so I throw my letters away. I will save you that task. Life is hard enough.