Letter to S 1

Dear S,
I said I wanted to write you a letter. I write letters to you and to others in my head all the time.
Well, not ALL the time.
I listened to “Try Again” by Keane.
I have something to tell you. Something about you. Something, I suppose, partly about me. But it’s not just about us. It’s broader than us.
But, somehow, I can’t put it into words.
It’s a sort of love and regret and hope and knowledge. I haven’t learned how to say it yet.

It isn’t “I love you,” even though I love all my friends. It’s more complicated than that. “I love you” is deep, profound, amazing, but it is, in a way, more simple than what I want to tell you.

Dear S,
Sometimes in the middle of my letters, I start from the beginning again, like this.
Because in a way I’m continuing the letter but in a way the other letter is dead.

Dear S,
I love you, and I love all my friends. But my love isn’t as beautiful as you might think it is. Because all our love is human.
And if humans are flawed, doesn’t it follow that our love is flawed, too?

Dear S,
I often think about the literal meaning of what people say. Today they and I were talking about “coincidences”. Isn’t it a coincidence that I was recently thinking about angels, and how some are said to resemble them, and that you mentioned angels in your last post?
you’re right. Girls are compared to angels too often.

Dear S,
Sometimes I don’t talk about things, because I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I mention things, and then drop the subject.
But I think about them a lot and write a thousand fragmented letters in my head.
And never send them.

When I write I think I might start commenting my own posts. Because I seem to have something else to say whenever I publish the post that doesn’t seem relevant enough to be in it.

Dear S,
I’m human. And humans have flaws and negative feelings and junk. Such as selfishness.
This human wants to spend more time with you. After all, you are one of its best friends. A selfish request, isn’t it? But requested none the less, in full knowledge of the fact.
This human is free Monday at lunch. Are you?
Love,
me.