15.

Dear --,

I began your letter at the stop sign on Third Street and lost it in a traffic jam on Hemming Way; you would've rolled your eyes at the name, so I tried to imagine you sitting beside me. That's what did it, of course--I had a perfectly good sentence and it went right out the window

with sentiment.

See there--I was trying to redeem myself by writing a poem, but apologetic prose doesn't like to share. I had grand illusions--something about a word on a breeze (how cliché) wandering past a car full of screaming children and a businesswoman on her phone. There were soccer stories, a brief pause for some striking observation, and then a tremendous ending in a field, or a grave, or your lips. (Probably your lips.) It was another perfect poem lived and never written. Speaking of

I've written you letters
on scraps of paper--
napkins, Sears receipts;
once I wrote on the back
of a manila folder,
and several times now
in the margins
of our favorite books.

This one had somewhere to go, but don't they all? The failure is mine, of course. I recalled the time you tied me to the bedpost and wrote words across my hips; the ink was so cold and your breath was so warm. I shivered as you blew across the letters, and you smiled--large eyes shadowed by the glare of a muted television. Sometimes I try to picture that smile. It's difficult out of context, but every now and then I convince myself of the memory, and the effort's almost worth it.

You wrote a poem once about my letters--not these letters (well, maybe these letters), the individual letters in individual words. There was a line

This D implies the bend in your shoulders
when you're pouring your coffee

(two lines, then). I read it over and over, reliving a moment when I bent past you early one morning and grabbed keds that didn't match; it took you half a cup of coffee to notice, and I didn't believe you once you had. It was a silly argument, but I cherish the silly ones. I think I made it halfway through lunch before I finally broke down and left you a message. "Baby," I said, "baby, I'm sorry. I love you. You were right about the shoes." I never wore those shoes again--not even with the right shirt--but I still have them. I blush when I pass them in the closet.

But your poem--the one about the letters--I had it taped to my desk, to my journal--it's been in six different bags and kept pages in countless books; twice now I've ripped it up only to tape it back together, desperately, in place of tears. You'll never know, though--how close I keep your words (even the poor ones). I sometimes think I should have told you, but a torn poem in the middle of a million secrets seems a strange thing to regret.

This is why writers rarely make it far in love; we spend our time having sex with words, remembering moments better as we wrote them than we do as we lived them. We spend our break-ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self-loathing and an unforgiving ego. You and I--we wrote while we could, left in despair when the words ran out and replaced themselves with a comfortable silence.

We never worked well in comfort. Writers live better as they suffer.

Even so,

I wish you were here.

-Chelsey Blake Chester