The One With The Professor Who Loved Faulkner.

Dear Lover,

Now, don't be jealous.

But you should know.

I met my match years ago.

As a sophomore in college.

He was 5 ft.  4 in. tall.

Dressed in corduroy and tweed.

Smoked a pipe.

Wore a fedora.

Had the roundest belly you ever did see.

And talked of nothing but William Faulkner.

I was taking Literature of the South.

And my professor was this bundle of joy.

He had this quirky little laugh.
Which caused people to stare.

And not know whether to laugh along with it.

Or at it.

I'd be walking out of the English Department building,

And would hear his voice yell across the crowd at me.

“Oh, fair Cassandra! Will it ever rain today?”

It would be stormy and heavy outside.

I'd call back that Yes, I believe it would.

Upon hearing my answer.

He'd raise his hand to his forehead with anguish and call me a liar.

One day in class.

He commented on the fact that he'd like it ever so much.

To be known as a Good Ol' Boy.

To me, somewhere between his turtle shell round glasses.

Elbow patches.
Jolly drawl.

And absolute love of literature.

He was the best kind of Good Ol' Boy.

And so.

On the title page of the following paper he assigned.

I wrote beneath my name and lecture title:

Professor Good Ol' Boy.

He gave me a hoot.

And an A+.

Love,

Me.

The One Where You Don't Crinkle Your Nose When I Blow My Nose.

Dear Lover,

Oy.

I don't feel very well today.

Will you buy me an endless supply of tissues?

And gather up a bouquet of daisies from a nearby field?

Will you bring me a cup of chamomile and honey tea?

And lie beside me in bed all day long watching my favorite movies?

Love,

Me.

The One With The British Invasion.

Dear Lover,

There's this old British man that I sometimes get to work with.

Most of the time, we get caught up in the topic of books.

And he tells me the stories behind so many titles, and authors, and illustrations and bookplates.

I can sit there before him for hours.

Just listening.

He especially enjoys spilling the beans about this author or that illustrator.

And the affairs and love interests and triangles they were all mixed up in.

And he always ends his narrative with a witty remark.

Which I love.

Then, sometimes, he'll slip in a story or two from his own life.

Like how, when he was a child, he'd watch his mother ride off to the market on her bike.

With the wire basket hanging from the handlebars.  

And wait for her return on the lawn in front of their home.

And how each and every time she returned...

She had more used poetry books than groceries in the basket of her bike.

And how he and his siblings would give her a hard time, saying how hungry they were.

And how their mother would toss them a book of poetry and say, "Well, suppose we ought to gobble these up then." 

So, of course, with stories such as these, I die.

Right there in my chair before him.

Just overwhelmed with the idea of it all.

So entirely all things cheeky and romantic.

So entirely my idea of England.

One time, after I picked myself up off the ground.

And caught sight of his chubby rosy cheeks again.

I couldn't help but spill all my little quirks.

Mentioning things like how the voice inside my head.

The one I make grocery lists with, read novels in and create witty comebacks with, almost always two minutes too late...

Is decidedly British.

Mention how I'd love to wander the countryside of the Cotswolds.

And can quote Monty Python at a whim.

Mention my love affair with the Beatles and David Bowie.

Even though I think the latter is sort of a creep.

Mention the fact that, if given the opportunity, I'm rather sure Prince William would fall madly in love with me.

And if not, surely, his younger brother Harry would make a suitable second.

Yes.  I went there.

But, that's what the British do, correct?  

They go there.

But I was only met with silence.

So I begin to wonder, that perhaps the British in fact, do not go there as much as I'd imagined...

And instead, it's crazy Americans like me who do...

That perhaps I'd just watched Mary Poppins a time too many as a child.

Perhaps living on a British ruled island for a year had given me the wrong impression of actually being practically, almost completely a citizen.

Maybe I read too many Jane Austen novels at an impressionable age.

Or should really consider switching out my David Gray and Coldplay cd's in my car for a change...

But then.

Finally.

The older British man clears his throat.

Like he always does at the end of his conversation.

And banters back with, "Don't sell yourself short.  Why not the whole lot of them?  William and Harry.  Give the Queen Mum a real run for her toppins?"

Perfect.

Love,

Me.

The One Where You Peel The Freckles From My Shoulders.

Dear Lover,

Goodness.
I'm pale.
Need a little sun.
To speckle up my shoulders.
The end of my nose.
And the tops of my cheeks.
So that you can spend your summer hours.
Counting the constellations scattered across me.

Love,
Me.

The One With Always A Bridesmaid.

Dear Lover,

Today I'm going to a wedding.

The son of my mother's godmother's best friend's daughter.

Still with me?

It's going to be lovely.

Really.

Really.

I don't want to go.

There.

I said it.

It's not because I don't want to hang out with my family.

I do.

And you can bet we'll be spending quality time together on the dance floor.

It's simply because.

Some days.

I just don't think it's fair.

Life.

Love.

This deck of cards.

Love, 

Me.

The One Where I Can Make That Cloud Disappear Right Before Your Eyes.

Dear Lover,

Did you know that my grandmother was a sort of modern day gypsy.

She was the one who taught me how to pray.

And how to suck up the pain of wearing heels.

Also, did you know that one day she shared with me a secret.

On how to make clouds disappear.

Love,

Me.

The One Where You Can Drive The Getaway Car.

Dear Lover,

I realized recently just how much I tend to be drawn to art thief books, television shows and movies.

What does that say about me?

I can tell you exactly what it means.

If I had the opportunity.

And the means.

And, let's face it, the guts.

I'd become an art thief. 

Little black capris.

Black flats, large oval sunglasses, and a beret over a blunt-edged bob.

(Because art thieves are decidely French, apparently.) 

Nevertheless, I'd steal a work of art.

But not just any piece, mind you.

No.

A great art thief would never sink so low.

A great art thief instead, would go for the big one.

And I'm not talking about Picasso.

Or DaVinci.

Or Monet.

I'm talking their favorite.

The one that is most sentimental...

All I know is.

You might want to take that into consideration.

The fact that you'd better keep me as far away as possible from a certain art museum.

Or you'll have an art thief to call your own.

As well as an original Modigliani...

And a girlfriend with a bad case of hat hair.

Love,

Me.

The One With Our Fort.

Dear Lover,

Let's build a fort in our living room.

We'll use our grandmothers' sheets.

Let their worn in softness cascade above us.

You'll hang twinkle lights haphazardly about.

And we'll lie across mismatched pillows.

That I arranged so nicely.

And eat a macaroni and cheese dinner.

We'll want music to hum to.

So you'll drag the record player within.

And we'll dance to our favorite songs.

Our toes will touch.

And send tingles through our spines.

So we'll end up making out.

And cause our little home to fall down upon us.

But that's okay.

Because we'll just stare at the ceiling.

Like it's our very own collection of Tennessee stars.

Love, 

Me.

The One When I Became A Wanderlust.

Dear Lover,

Once.

I took a Greyhound bus from my hometown to Santa Fe.

To attend a photography workshop.

I remember how terrified I was.

Climbing those metal steps.

Sliding sideways with my bag down the narrow aisle.

And then staring out at my family through the scratched and blurry window.

I couldn't even sleep that night.

So afraid of the strangers who slept uncomfortably within inches of me.

Jerking up every time the driver would veer off the road and onto the gravel.

But then.

I awoke the following morning.

And there was the reddening sunrise.

And I realized just how far away from home I was.

In a town I'd never been to alone before.

And suddenly, the window scratches became Van Gogh etchings.

And the other passengers became Dean Moriartys.

The gang member with slit scars up and down his wrists.

With his Dep hair gel.

And the CD he traded me for a stick of gum.

The ebony-skinned mother.

With her three miniature muses.

All heel toes and too-dah-lees down the aisle and back.

And me, between them all.

Caught in a moment between my youth and forthcoming adventure.

And the road was the dividing line.

Love,

Me.

The One With The Forgotten Fables.

Dear Lover,

I have this story I'm writing.

About fables and fairy tales.

Reading between the lines and jumping into stories.

And all sorts of wonderful adventures.

I imagined it up for one reason alone.

To read to my someday children.

As they curl up between wrinkled sheets.

Propped up on pillows.

Begging for one more chapter before they have to go to sleep.

But sometimes, I become stuck.

Whether it's because of writer's block.

Or because I let someone read the story so far.

And receive critical comments cloaked in constructive criticism.

Or because I get lost in daily life.

And can't seem to find the time to scribble.

So, I push the story and the characters aside.

For weeks on end.

Wondering whether I'll ever return.

Wondering whether those someday children will ever exist.

But then, by chance.

I'll think of something clever.

Or silly.

And I love those moments.

When I find my way back.

To my story.

And I imagine my someday children again.

And how they'll clasp their hands together in anticipation.

And giggle at the characters who'll come alive before their eyes.

As they lay curled up between those wrinkled sheets.

Propped up against those pillows.

Just begging for another chapter before they have to go to sleep.

Which, of course, I'll concede to.

Reading another chapter, that is.

Because I'll be a sucker.

For those someday children of ours.

Love,

Me.

The One With Your Father-In-Law.

Dear Lover,

Promise me you'll sit for hours.

Watching golf tournaments on the television.

With my father.

Love,

Me.

The One With The Finger Painting.

Dear Lover,

Hey there mister.

I've got an idea.

How about we take a trip to the museum.

Stand before a Jackson Pollock painting.

With our legs spread shoulder length.

Our arms hanging at our sides.

Dive into those splatters.

And stare at our childhood.

At scraped knees.

And orange flavored popsicles.

That woodsy aftertaste of the stick against our tongues.

At skinny dipping in the camp pool.

And running across scorching sidewalks with barefeet. 

At first kisses.

And friendship bracelets.

And the view from tops of tree branches.

Love,

Me.

The One With Pioneer, Oh Pioneer.

Dear Lover,

There's this memory I have.
One that had escaped for years.
But, I recently recalled it and was met with unequivocal joy.
And, looking back, realize how much affect it had on the person I've become.
And want to be.
You see, once, I was an absolute and complete suburban city kid.
The sort of kid who walked to and from school each day.
Knew how to skateboard.
Belonged to the city pool, where I, obviously, had a supreme crush on one of the lifeguards.
And had participated in my fair share of TP-ing Parties.
I was friends with all the kids in a four block radius.
Had a best friend just around the corner.
And a boy my age who lived down the street and who tried to weasel me into a kiss practically every other day.

And yet.
The 60-something-year-old woman who lived across the street fascinated me like no other.
Her name was Dorothy.
And I remember she had an older son who always got into trouble.
I also remember sitting in her kitchen one day and her offering me a cup of milk.
After taking a sip, I immediately realized that the tart, creamy thickness in my mouth was not Borden.
Catching the fear in my eyes, Dorothy chuckled and told me it was goat milk.
I couldn't swallow.
So, I pretended to.
Then immediately pretended to take another sip but instead did the whole spit-it-back-in-the-cup switcharoo.
After noticing that I wasn't going to drink anymore goat milk, Dorothy gave me an understanding wink.
Took my full glass and... to my horror... poured the leftovers back into the glass milk jug.
Whether it was because I felt sorry for her because of her punk son.
Or because I was so completely stricken with the thought that she'd eventually sipped on my milky spit-up.
I don't know.
But, she'd tell me to wash her car.
And I had the soapy buckets practically filled already.

One day, after getting permission from my parents, Dorothy asked me if I'd like to spend the weekend with her on her farm a few hours away.
Would I?!
The next thing I knew.
My father was dropping me off in front of a small, white-wooden country-style house.
Dorothy waved from the front porch, a dish towel in her hand, and a half-apron around her waist.
First, she showed me around the house.
Brass beds with clothes-line sheets.
Lace curtains at the kitchen sink.
Wooden floors that creaked.
Then, she took me outside to her farm.
There were the infamous goats.
There were a couple of wrinkled turkeys and a rather fat, pink pig.
There was a jersey cow with an actual bell around her neck.
A henhouse full of roosting chickens.
And a garden with a short, wire fence.
Over the course of the weekend.
I avoided the goats.
Stared in horror at the turkeys.
Nuzzled snouts with the pig, feeding her daily metal buckets of scraps.
And learned how to milk a cow.
I learned which ripened fruit to pick.
And was taught how to make homemade fruit roll-ups with the berries I plucked from the garden.
I was taught that gathering eggs from the henhouse can be rewarding.
(We sold the eggs and used the money to buy Blue Bell icecream.)
But also dangerous.
(Snakes liked to swallow the eggs just as eagerly as we liked to slurp our icecream.)
And as terrified as I was each time I entered that henhouse and reached for the nest of eggs.
Dorothy's stern and yet patient farmwife voice gave my fear the extra push it needed to gather them up in the bowl of my apron.
By the end of that first day, I crashed within the cool, cotton sheets of my bed.
The windows open and the lace curtains fluttering me to sleep.
Then, up again when the sun rose the following morning.
It felt like a summer's worth of farming.
And yet.
When my parents showed up just two days later to pick me up...
I wasn't nearly ready to leave.

Looking back, I realize Dorothy's Farm was little more than a house at the end of a cul-de-sac which lent an acre or two more of a backyard.
But for me, it was perfect.
It was fields and fields to tend.
It was pens and pens to feed.
It was the start of a hope that still lives within me...

Oh! To tramp about in work boots and apron!
Tending the fruits and vegetables of the garden and all the animals of the farm!

So what do you say?
Want to head out West?

Love,
Me.

The One Where You Pull Up A Bucket Beside Me.

Dear Lover,

I had this friend and roommate while in college.

She was loyal, stand-offish, could speak in any accent I'd throw at her.

And had a love affair with Thomas Hardy novels.

On Sundays, we'd grab lunch to go.

Head back to our apartment.

Get into our pajamas.

Plop down on the couch.

While away our lazy afternoons watching BBC movies.

Nope.  It never got old.

One Sunday, in particular.

We watched Tess of the d'Urbervilles.

The 1998 T.V. version.

Heartbreaking.

I mean, the agonizing sort of heartbreak.

Never again, I swore.

And made her pop in Pride & Prejudice.

The Colin Firth version.

To erase the previous memory of the film that still reeled in the back of my mind.

But it wouldn't erase.

In fact, one evening, when I had the apartment to myself, I attempted to watch Tess again.

Hoping this time, there'd be more, well, hope.

Nope.  Still depressing.

But there was that one section of the movie.

That was all joyful.

All simple.

All happiness.

At Talbothay's Dairy.

Where Tess was a milkmaid.

Where Angel was an apprentice farmer.

And there's that one scene.

Goodness, me.

When he carries her over a flooded road.

Sidecut glances slowly turning into long gazes.

And in his arms, she clings.

And that's the part of the movie I always ended on from then on out.

Whenever Tess of the d'Urbervilles came up again on the playlist.

Would walk out of the room, leaving my roommate to finish the remaining movie all alone.

She, laughing and calling after me about just how pathetic I was.

But I don't care if it's pathetic.

And I don't care if it's naive.

Because that's the way to go out, isn't it?

Joyful.  Simple.  Happily.  Gazing.  And clinging to your arms.

Love, 

Me.  

The One With Home Sweet Home.

Dear Lover,

Someday.

There'll be a cottage.

With a garden filled with vegetables and herbs.

I'll have some dogs and kids.

And a bustling house of activity and love and noise.

I know this.

But I cannot see the path that leads me there.

Love,

Me.

The One With The Penguin Brand On Your Shirt.

Dear Lover,

There's this species of penguins.

The Adelie penguins.

Each one spends their whole lives looking for that one other penguin.

And when they finally meet.

They know.

Love, 

Me.

The One With The Hidden Kiss.

Dear Lover,

I have a secret.

One I carry in the right hand corner of my lips.

That I'd like to share with only you.

Love, 

Me.

The One With Bert And Uncle Albert.

Dear Lover,

I love to laugh.

Enjoy slapstick.

Satire.

And will employ both at a whim.

Grew up watching Nick At Nite.

I Love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Truly believe most of life can be related to a Seinfeld episode.

And when Liz Lemon delivers a line, I think, Oh God, that's exactly what I'm saying inside my head.

I even know all the words to Mary Poppin's I Love To Laugh.

And invented a Laughing Game when I was younger that I still push upon people to play.

I spend most of my day cracking myself up.

Whether it be with a knee-slapper.

Or a witty spin of words.

But I have an idea.

That laughing along with you.

Might be one of the greatest things I'm missing out on at the moment.

So promise me.

When we finally do meet.

Let's be the kind.

What can't make up their minds.

Love, 

Me.

The One With The Game Day Disclaimer.

Dear Lover,

Promise me.

You'll get together with the guys.

Pizza, hot wings, and Sam Adams.

Gathered around the television.

An uproar of noise at the buzzer.

And I'll promise you.

Not to interrupt with stupid sports questions.

Or call you into the kitchen because I don't have your full attention.

Scrunch my nose at the lingering scent of cigar smoke.

An icy stare and slammed door to the bedroom.

That's right.

I'll leave you be.

But.

Just in case you need anything...

I'll be in the kitchen.

Hanging with the girls.

Drinking and snacking and laughing and gabbing.

Enter at your own risk.

Love,

Me. 

The One With My In-Laws.

Dear Lover,

Soooooo.

Tell me about your family...

Love,

Me.

The One With Our Song.

Dear Lover,

Let's hum it in the kitchen.

Let's belt it in the car.

Let's echo it in the shower.

Let's shout it to the stars.

Love,

Me.

The One With That Damn Tooth Fairy.

Dear Lover,

I promise you this.

I will love our children.

The spin in the grass with arms wide out sort of love.

I will let them laugh till their sides ache.

The chase through the sprinklers with bare feet sort of laughter.

I will let them cry out their tears without saying, shhhhh.

The sort of cry that needs cuddling into the crook and bedtime stories afterwards.

But loose teeth?

So help me...

Love,

Me.

The One With No Matter How Long It Takes, No Matter How Far, I Will Find You.

Dear Lover,

Of all the movies out there.

If you ever want to cuddle on the couch with me.

Feel my head rest upon your shoulder.

And watch emotion come over me and swell up my eyes and cheeks.

Pop in Last of the Mohicans.

Goodness.

That movie sweeps me up.

Something about Daniel Day-Lewis.

And the extreme loyalty he has for the characters and stories he dedicates himself to.

Something about Madeleine Stowe's brave beauty.

And running into her that one time back home, and the smile and nod we shared.

Like she knew she'd just passed by a kindred spirit.

Something about Eric Schweig as Uncas.

And his quiet courage and kindness.

Oh, Uncas, my favorite.

Something about Jodhi May.

And the single braid in her hair as her heart broke within her.

Something about the filming at North Carolina.

And the running through the wilds woods to the seeming safety of the waterfall.

Something about the Last of the Mohicans finale.

Cue the Scottish fiddler that haunts my soul.

And which will be echoing in my ears as I walk towards you.

I'm sure of it.

Love,

Me.

The One With The Over The Shoulder.

Dear Lover,

Promise me that whenever we depart.

You going one way.

To work.

Me going the other.

To write.

We'll always catch each other gazing back.

Love, 

Me.

The One With The Rattling Teacup And Saucer.

Dear Lover,

When I was younger.

I used to spend weekends with my great grandmother.

Meme.

Oh, boy.

Was she ever a spitfire.

Could tell the strangest and most terrifying and glorious bedtime stories.

Goats trip-tropping over stone bridges which hid trolls.

Old farm dogs getting their ears and tails cut off by drunken farmers.

And winds beckoning leaves to come and play across the meadows.

Would tickle-back-scratch me to sleep.

And if, by some chance, she happened to doze while in the process.

All she needed was a little nudge.

And her fingers would wake.

Made a mean grilled cheese sandwich with homemade french fries.

Crispy waffles, in which she'd let me drench in syrup.

And the sweetest sun steeped tea in a glass jar that once held apple juice.

And maybe a little saccharine.  

Let me watch the soaps with her.

Even the episodes about rape and incest and murder.

And would even let me sneak in some MTV music video time.

Pretending she didn't notice.

Would walk that walk of hers all the way to Pic-N-Save.

Her wrists flipping, a shade umbrella in her hand.

With a promise that if I didn't run too far ahead along the stone wall.

I could pick out one of the dollar toys.

I could go on forever.

Because she is so entirely a part of me.

And I am her in so many ways.

But the one thing I remember most vividly.

Were the moments just before bed.

When she'd sit down before her vanity.

Patting the ottoman.

Inviting me to sit along the edge beside her.

And then reach for her jar of Merle Norman Cleansing Cream.

Slowly, she'd twist off the rose pink top.

Setting it to the side.

Then, with two fingers, she'd dip into the powder pink cream.

Scooping out a dollop.

A smell that will never, ever, vanish from my memory.

I would delight in those short moments.

Meme's long fingers gliding the cream over my cheekbones and chin and forehead.

Massaging the skin.

And together, we'd face the mirror and smile.

A set of marshmallow-faced women stared back.

Then she'd take a tissue and gently wipe off the layer.

Finally, blowing a cool breeze from her pinched lips onto my nose.

Sending a chill through my teeth and down to my toes.

Making me feel beautiful.

And older.

As if I carried secrets like Mrs. Darling did.

In the corners of my grin.

I want to be just like my great grandmother someday.

Only.

With you beside me.

Ready to gobble up my hor devours.

As we sip Tang on the terrace.

Love, 

Me.

The One With The Big Apple.

Dear Lover,

I once lived just outside of New York City.

Had a job that kept me away most of the time.

But when I was around, I'd jump the train and head straight for Little Italy.

Would eat at my favorite restaurant.

Da Nico's.

Where the waiters were all men.

And the owner would come up to the table and take a seat.

Sing a song.

Then bring me a complimentary plate of Italian beignets with my latte.

Afterwards, I'd wander up and over to the side streets of Soho.

To visit yarn shops and vintage boutiques.

With a new skein in my canvas bag, I'd sit beneath the arch at Washington Square for a bit.

Thinking of the new scarf I'd soon have.

Trying to convince myself that at my next stop, I'd limit myself to only one or two.

Just one or two, I'd repeat.

But it never stuck.

Because the stacks of books at The Strand that I weaved in and out of.

Stepped over and to the side of.

Were just too tempting.

And so, I'd shove the new novels beside the yarn.

Which of course, weighed down my shoulder.

So I'd take another break.

This time, at Union Square.

Sometimes catching an open air market.

Glance longingly at the silver tree ring, once again.

The one the Asian lady named Coko designed herself.

The one she knew I'd come back for on my last weekend there.

Then, a straight shot.

Up 5th Ave.

To 40th St.

To lean against the stone lions.

And slip in a few chapters from one of my new books.

This was my New York City.

Love,

Me.

The One With And That Will Be Our Kitchen.

Dear Lover,

The walls will be white.
And there will be a vintage teacloth as a curtain.
At a window above the sink that I can fling open.
Because I'll probably burn the cinnamon sugar toast that is under the broiler.
Just like my mother does each and every time.
There'll be random patterned plates and glassware in the cupboards.
And elephant shaped measuring cups on the counter.
Lined up and ready for baking.
Which I'll do most every day.
And which won't ever come out burned.
There'll be spaghetti sauce bubbling in a pot on the stove.
Or enchilada sauce.
A couple of pieces of chocolate bark in my hand.
So it tastes exactly how my great grandmother's sauces tasted.
And you'll come in and kiss the side of my neck.
And then our children will scamper in whooping and slapping their feet.
Against the black and white checkered floor.
Wanting to know, what's for dinner?!
And you'll chase them around.
Nearly tripping over the mongrel of a dog we'll most definitely have.
And then finally.
When I've got you all settled into your seats and served.
We'll say grace.
The voices of our children.
As their eyes and hands are clasped tight.
And you trying to play footsie with me beneath the table.

Love,
Me.

The One With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Dear Lover,

On the other hand.
There once was another boy.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Who broke my heart.
And made me feel about this small.

And there are lots of songs that remind me of him.
Pearl Jam ones that I screamed at.
Counting Crows ones that I grew depressed at.
Jewel ones that I sobbed at.

And there are lots of places that remind me of him.
Certain places on campus.
Austin, Texas.
Riodosa, New Mexico.

They are hard songs to listen to.
And they are hard places to revisit.
Without suddenly feeling a sweeping sensation of heaviness overcome me.

But I am getting better.
I am learning how to say, good riddance.
(Perhaps with a choice curse word inserted in between.)
And I'm hoping.
That by the time you come around.
He'll have become, He-Who?

Love,
Me.

The One With The Boy From Topeka.

Dear Lover,

There was once a boy named Kevin.
He was from Kansas.
We slow danced and swam hand in hand into the ocean.
He swore that one day he'd take me to the World's Largest Ball of Twine.
Burned me my first mixed cd.
Wrestled alligators.
And would say the sort of things men sometimes keep hidden inside.
As rain fell onto my cheekbones.

There is this Counting Crows song that reminds me of him every time I hear it.

He's not you.
I know this.
But, for awhile, I didn't.
I thought perhaps I'd let a good one slip away.
Because, you see.
When we were together.
I was caught up in a time of my life that didn't allow me to be my complete self around him.
Which only messed things up.
And so, we didn't wait for each other.
And he is married now.
And I'm finally in a time of my life that allows me to realize myself now.
I no longer go disappearing as much.
Into the greater grey that covers over every day and hovers in the distance, as the song says.

But I want you to know.
That he was kind.
And although it was hard for him to understand those grey shadows I was so tangled up in.
He always tried.
And that's why, when I hear that song by that band.
A band we used to love to listen to together.
I think of him.
And probably always will.

Love,
Me.