Dear Eric,
Why I'm sitting up at 3 A.M. is beyond me but I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that the rain is pounding on my window. It's funny how I always seem to associate your memory with the blackest of evenings, as if it were a terrible indicator of all the misery our union would bring. Still, I find myself straining my eyes into the darkness with the faintest hope that I might see the glint of your silver Camaro. I await the rev of an engine to pollute the evening's silence, that is your way of asserting your presence, in the most obnoxious way, naturally.
All these jabs at your expense are skirting the issue - if I can somehow joke about your egoistic tendencies then maybe your absence is only a distorted dream. I miss the way that I could look forward to your brazen displays of affection, appearing at my house at all hours of the night, blasting our song while the neighbors rebuked your lack of concern from their children's REM cycles.
You certainly went against the mold, didn't you? You were unlike anyone I have ever known; your uniqueness was a badge of honor you wore proudly. There was a power within you, one that compelled me to mirror your actions, to move with you in the hopes of absorbing a fraction of your energy by merely residing in your atmosphere. I loved the way that you could make me feel. Invincible. Unburdened. Happy.
Peering through the dark, I see only the pale glow of a streetlight, flickering as the shadows of swaying branches dance across the pavement. You are nowhere to be found. It breaks my heart knowing that you're gone.
Love,
V
Veronica felt the pen release from her clenched fingers; the tingling sensation of blood flowing through her veins tickled her palm. Glancing at the page, black lines and inkblots polluted the surface, creating chaotic spaces between the sentences. She rolled her neck, pulling her head to the side, feeling the warm pull of the muscles in her shoulders. For a moment, she considered turning the page; she had a great deal more to say, but the plod of her husband’s footsteps across the corridor made her shut the leather notebook with a soft thud. She strained to place it on the top shelf of the bookcase then moved the ceramic vase back to its original position, concealing her private hobby once more.
Why I'm sitting up at 3 A.M. is beyond me but I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that the rain is pounding on my window. It's funny how I always seem to associate your memory with the blackest of evenings, as if it were a terrible indicator of all the misery our union would bring. Still, I find myself straining my eyes into the darkness with the faintest hope that I might see the glint of your silver Camaro. I await the rev of an engine to pollute the evening's silence, that is your way of asserting your presence, in the most obnoxious way, naturally.
All these jabs at your expense are skirting the issue - if I can somehow joke about your egoistic tendencies then maybe your absence is only a distorted dream. I miss the way that I could look forward to your brazen displays of affection, appearing at my house at all hours of the night, blasting our song while the neighbors rebuked your lack of concern from their children's REM cycles.
You certainly went against the mold, didn't you? You were unlike anyone I have ever known; your uniqueness was a badge of honor you wore proudly. There was a power within you, one that compelled me to mirror your actions, to move with you in the hopes of absorbing a fraction of your energy by merely residing in your atmosphere. I loved the way that you could make me feel. Invincible. Unburdened. Happy.
Peering through the dark, I see only the pale glow of a streetlight, flickering as the shadows of swaying branches dance across the pavement. You are nowhere to be found. It breaks my heart knowing that you're gone.
Love,
V
Veronica felt the pen release from her clenched fingers; the tingling sensation of blood flowing through her veins tickled her palm. Glancing at the page, black lines and inkblots polluted the surface, creating chaotic spaces between the sentences. She rolled her neck, pulling her head to the side, feeling the warm pull of the muscles in her shoulders. For a moment, she considered turning the page; she had a great deal more to say, but the plod of her husband’s footsteps across the corridor made her shut the leather notebook with a soft thud. She strained to place it on the top shelf of the bookcase then moved the ceramic vase back to its original position, concealing her private hobby once more.
