Dear Lena,
You wanted us to write love letters to each other and send it in the mail. As a postman, I remember handling one or two envelopes that I suppose contained love letters—sometimes you can feel their weight. It’s been some time since I’ve written one of these. I didn’t think that I ever would again; and some part of me is struggling to forget that I ever did. I hope to forget.
I showed you this Cot painting because I thought she looked like you, and the way her arms wrap around his neck is how you wrap yourself around me like a vine around a tree. I was watching King of Queens and you fell asleep, and your breathing was on my neck, and I was laughing thinking how nice it would be if you were watching this too. Then I wondered what you’d think of Seinfeld.
Thinking of you makes me sleepy, and a little hungry. Sleeping with you feels like an overdue hibernation, a thousand-year respite from this every day nonsense of a life. And there are still some places you have yet to try. But when it comes to music and films, I think I’ll let you do the picking. I’m not fussy about it. Sometimes there’s too much on the line showing someone something that means something to you, too much expectation and hope; whereas, I would prefer to be on the receiving end of your preferences so that as my world remains inaccessible, I can find refuge in yours; and maybe from there we can build something new.
You’re convinced that you love me more, and that you feel more deeply. I don’t know when I became so tired and disillusioned to consider that you might be right. But I wonder if you’re right only because I don’t know the measurement of love—or maybe I’m thinking about some years later when your eyes go from glints of adoration to dull boredom; when today’s promises are tomorrow’s debts; frightened that I won’t be ready when the rug is pulled from underneath; frightened more when you say that it never will—because it always is; when I think about what you once loved about me:
“I love the small details about you, the awkward smile, and definitely the judgeyness.”
But, I suppose, what matters is not what adrenaline makes us say, but what is still with us when our hearts are calm. Luckily for me my medication slows my heart; so when I say that I love you, it means that I love you.