I wanted to take you somewhere nice,or let you take me somewhere nice.We are going to sit under a magnolia tree and talk about the creases on your forefingers and how it’s starting to worry me that the creases are growing deeper.Soon your hands will look like prunes.But it’s alright as long as you know how to croon.
I wanted to write you a note.I folded pages from the Haruki Murakami book so I can refer from the wise things he spoke.Something about how words weigh things down and words aren’t good enough for love.I wrote a poem,and wrote an apology.I crumpled it and redo it in my mind with various analogies.
“I loved you.”I wrote.
“I loved you.” I wrote.
I imagined after I finish what I wanted to write,I folded the paper to put in a brown envelope.As I was folding it,I got a papercut.I bled all over the beige A4 paper.The wound was as deep as the creases on your forefingers.That was when I knew,I shouldn’t have written the letter in the first place.Now I have blood in my hands.I wiped my bloody hands on top of words on how we met and how we became what we became.
Then I threw the letter into the bin and watched television,as if nothing happened.As if,I never bled at all.
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
|—||Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums|