Attn: You
Dear You,
Its been months since I opened up the folder in my inbox devoted entirely to you. Months since I read through your letters to me and I grinned like an ass over all the wonderful things you said to me.
You sent me an email a month or so ago, and I replied and attached a photo of me on my Thoroughbred. He is huge. And I’d like to train him so that if he ever saw you, he’d stomp you like a fly. And he loves me so damn much he would, too.
I feel so free of you these days, so much so that I wonder what happened to the girl who spent three years of her life begging you to come back. You never did, but you promised again and again that you would. I’m happy that we’re apart: I’m happy that I knew you, I’m happy that I made an ass of myself in your eyes again and again because now I know so much more.
But if I am so damn happy all the time, why can’t I bring myself to delete your folder? Why can’t I get the picture of your face out of my head, and why is it that when someone walks by who smells like you, I’m brought back to everything I thought you were?
And maybe its just that you were the only one there when I left and went to the city, you were the only one who called and came to visit and all those wonderful things.
I’m done, though, I really am. I’m through hoping we’ll have another of those movie-esque scenes in an airport or when you drive up to my house in your Benz. (And if you did, my trusty steed would most certainly dent it with a hind hoof. Or maybe even a front one.)
But regardless of how through I am with you, I can’t delete your folder, and it just pisses me off every time I see it.
Sincerely,
The Girl You Used to Call Your Girl
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