Dear you,

I write you these letters, and then I erase them. In these letters I apologize about how I was, back then.

I don't want to write about the past, though.

For whatever reason, one night you told me you loved me. And I believed that. I believe it still, about that moment.

I want to write you this amazing letter that would sweep you off your feet. I want to write you letters of honeysuckle and moonlight and quilts on baseball fields.

I want to write you letters field with Heavy and put your head on my shoulder and backs and hips.

I want to write you letters filled with the way I remember you, so strong and beautiful and amazing.

I want to write you letters filled with standing in your front yard, with my fingers on the back of your hand, with your face when you saw me at your surprise party.

I want to write you letters with how I still remember little things about you: how you associated everything with colors, how your favorite painting was Thomas Hart Benton's Persephone, how a train ride was the most amazing thing you could imagine.

I want to write you letters so you know that somewhere some stupid kid gave their heart to you even while they were being an asshole. I want to write you letters so you know that if there's ever a day when the entire world seems against you--- when the raise doesn't come through and the bill is higher than you expected and your dinner is burnt and your flowers are dying--- when the weight of everything is pressing down on you I want to write you letters so you know that someone out there thinks the god damn world of you.

I want to write letters telling you of how I could imagine nothing better, nothing more right in this world, than for me to spend my life making you happy.

But I think the truth may be more that there are no real fairy tales anymore. Maybe this is a safe dream I fall back onto when times get rough. Maybe the truth is I have not treated any woman the way she deserved at the time.

I want to write you letters, though. I want to write you letters so I could have a chance at one more heart break. One honest, pure heart break not diluted by miles and states and school and work and other people. One heart break because just plainly after all we do not work.

One of the last things you ever told me in person was to step away from that edge. I did. But I may try stepping out again, falling over, just to write you one letter. One letter. One that just says, "Hi. How are you?"

So.

Hi.

How are you?