27

Dear Z
~ an imagined moment ~


Dear Z,

It's been nine months since I last saw you. Ten months since we broke up. Twelve minutes since I last thought about you. Twenty-seven days since I last said your name.

And though I keep telling myself I'm done. Though I keep believing that this time will be the last time I think about you, I know I'm full of shit.

I'm glad I'm not with you anymore. You were an asshole. An arrogant asshole. An arrogant, always late, all-are-less-important-than-me asshole.

How we ever started, how I ever fell for you, and how I ever lasted as long as I did still remains a mystery to me.

The only thing I can think of that kept me for so long was the sex. I wanted a lot. You put out a lot. It that respect, we matched. In all others, well, hey you're reading this letter so you know how that went.

I had a dream about you last night. Well, actually, it wasn't about you per say. You were featured, though.

I dreamt I was talking to you, at least I thought I was talking to you. You stood behind me, put your arms on my shoulders, and crossed our wrists in front of me. It was a familiar touch, a sweet playful gesture. I should have known it was a dream from that alone.

You whispered in my ear as we talked. I smiled and squeaked a little when your words tickled my ear.

But when I turned around, I saw that it wasn't you. It was Hannah, my friend who's working in Brazil trying to help poor runaways find jobs and not end up as addicts or drug whores or worse.

I miss Hannah. Her smile. Her ridiculous laugh that sounds, at times, like a fog horn.

I love my Hannah. I miss my Hannah.

And yet, when my dream started, those arms and that voice were yours. It doesn't take expert to realize my brain was harping on the people I cared for, the people I missed.

But you are no Hannah.

I miss your penis, though. And your eyes when you fucked me. Your intensity. Your concentration. And the smell of your sweat on my body.

But you. No, I don't miss you.