You come here each night from that IP address that also used to be mine. From the white sheets that used to suffocate me in the South Florida heat you read my heart, foolishly believing that it was only yours. Licking the last of the greek yogurt and cinnamon off of your sterling silver spoon, you hunt my writing on the same computer we watched my(our) favorite indie movies on until 3AM on work nights. You hunt me like the vintage silver bison I bought you from that thrift shop in my hometown in Wyoming that found a home on your splintered wood dining room table, searching for any word, any line that might show I still love you. You hold those signed Cancer Fighter gloves that I got after my speech in Chicago hostage as I fight one of the toughest fights of my life, believing that you win by having something that I want.
Do you know I want to survive? I want to remember what it feels like to be so loved that nothing else in this entire world matters. I want to be more than a trophy.
All while you just stay behind the screen of your iPhone X and pray to God that I won’t know that you are still hooked on my every word.
Would it surprise you to know that he has brown eyes too? That we also had our own love affair in Miami before he moved back to the city? Would it shock you to know that every post you read thinking it is a secret pining love letter to you, is actually to someone else?
What if I told you that this blog is fictional? How much of your(our) life would you have to tuck into a ‘delusional’ folder, realizing you made it up?
Would it surprise you to realize that you can’t offer me anything that I actually want?
Would you believe(know) I was really gone then?