letter


On paper with pen I scribble a note to you that borders on a love letter and yet, half-way through, I pause and try to resist destroying the page with negative remarks and fire because I become so certain that you are not truly interested and that I am just being dragged along like some hopeless puppy dog on a leash. It sometimes feels like you’ve milked everything whilst waiting for the perfect thing to arrive and now you’re realising it’s almost too late. You’ve hooked me but you’re keeping me alive in a bucket so that you can turn to me if nothing that you truly want comes along at the last moment. It’s all a game in which men like me have no chance of competing. All the likes of me can do is stand aside and watch you go through one after the next and, if we’re sad enough, hope that we will be the next one that you go through… somehow stupidly believing that we might be the one you stick with but trying to convince ourselves that we only want our fifteen minutes.
            I have a degree in English and I have written two and a half novels but nothing has equalled the difficulty of writing this letter to you. It has taken me a few days to write three pages and I am just not sure yet if the whole thing will survive or suffer a fiery death over an abandoned barbeque in my garden. For now, however, ink continues to stain the paper in my sketch pad and the letter continues to grow. I wonder if you will have to hide it when it arrives or if it will cause a fight in your life with someone who exists in some form of complicated relationship with you. I wonder if my letter might ignite the love that he feels for you because he realises there is a threat of losing you. Or will it simply be cast aside unnoticed?

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