journal nine.

Let me write you a love letter.

I’ll sign it with “xoxo,” that nickname you gave me so long ago, and maybe a spritz of perfume—give you something to remember me by.

I’ll start it with “To my beloved” and finish that off with “babe”… no, “lover”… maybe your name, but that’s too casual, no?

I’ll write about how our love was so bad, it was good, because that’s what they tell us in grade school: two odds make an even, two negatives cancel out. We were positive together—positively going in some direction. We were just too blinded by love to know whether that was up or down, forward or backwards; space is relative, don’t you know? Time is, too, and I can’t seem to remember the time we’ve spent together anymore. I hope you still do.

I’ll write about how much I loved, how much we gave to each other, how I stopped looking in a mirror to see myself—I could just look at you, but it was not the same. Our parts were all mixed up; we got our puzzles switched at some point, but it’s okay because now we carry each other everywhere we go.

I’ll write about our communication of repeating conversations, those solo late night drives, the outlaws of single tears that trailed down my face when you weren’t looking.

Let me write you a love letter. I’ll address it “To Hell.” I hope it makes you in time.