on writing


Sometimes I find that it is hard to write without writing
about you, and all the times I thought I'd held the truth in my hands like 
freshly printed pages, or a stack of library books that need to be brought home
for the weekend. Your trust is on loan; I know that now—we are always
running on borrowed time. I make bargains: what if I promise to return
you to the version of yourself you are still madly in love with, will that make
much of a difference? What if I promise to keep my grip firm, to jot down
every infinitesimal switch, take note of everything that shifts, will that make
you stay? Here's the thing, darling: sometimes it is hard to write
without writing about you, and maybe someday I'll get better; someday
I'll get away; someday I will wrap my paper-thin heart in plastic, carve 
my name onto its spine; and maybe someday it will no longer be hard to write 
without writing about you because someday I will finally
stop: settle my fines and say, "I'm sorry this has been long overdue."