Letter to Hesitant Albatross

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Dear Hesitant Albatross,

I’m getting that buzz again. That buzz, that desire to have a person’s skin under my fingertip other than my own. Not that the desire ever left, but longing overpowered the feeling. The unattainable was what I was trying to attain. I thought just maybe if I stretched these thin arms of mine long enough, the prints of my fingers would scrape your skin. And they did and more. I was able to latch on like the most loving leech that sucks blood from only the waning vessels of toxin, never meaning to create another diseased vein. But there was someone else whose fingertips actually grazed your skin. Who actually latched onto your body. Who you actually whisked away to the room and who you actually held together when it felt like her world was swallowing her whole. Sometimes metaphors simply aren’t enough. Actuality is where the beauty of all the words become a delicate reality. So, I move on. I let these feelings linger in the dark recess of my mind and wait ’til another day when actuality leans our way to step boldly into the sun. They still try to step toes and fingers into the light, but the regrets burns them and they run for the dark’s cover again. That’s why I apologize for even the minutest possibly awkward comment. That’s how my feelings sprint back into the dark. Allude, speak, sprint, cower, and repeat.

Anyway, I’ve found someone else that gives me a buzz. A replacement almost. She’s no you. No, no one’s you. But she’s giving rise to these familiar feelings I so desperately wanted to feel again. Maybe it’ll grow; maybe it’ll progress no more. All that I know for now is that she feels the same and there is, as far as I know, no “actual leech” to latch on to her. I’ll see where this leads. I’ll see. But she doesn’t like to read, unlike you. One of our first conversations centered on your love for a 19th century poet who wrote an epic about a ship at sea and symbolistic albatrosses taking flight (the same albatrosses you wanted to tattoo on your body). I can still woo her with my poetry. She understands. She’s intelligent. She thinks  out of the box and when I go off on my imaginative tangents, she doesn’t just laugh and be amused. She plays along. We build a fantasy together, sit back, and marvel at our ludicrous, amusing creation. We laugh at ourselves and at each other. But it’s all new. She and I are new. I still feel I’m rushing things along to re-create what we had. I forget what we had occurred naturally. Love was a buildup we noticed, but were too afraid to voice. I feel I’m already making plans to see this girl, yet I don’t feel I know her nearly as well as I do you. I haven’t got her puzzle completed yet. I don’t even have access to all of the jigsaw pieces. I have your puzzle nearly figured out. There’s just this one piece near the bottom left corner that you never gave me. I stumble around in your soul sometimes and I almost grab it from the mantle, but you politely place it out of my reach again. But I know why you hide it. I don’t need every jigsaw piece to complete the picture.

So what am I trying to say? That I’m not over you? I thought that was obvious. It’s obvious to me that you still have lingering love for me also. I’ve found someone new and I want to make you jealous? I’m just not that type of person. I guess what I am trying to say that there is hope for love after you, I’m just don’t want to leave the thought of you and I alone. Like I said, I won’t sit here and mourn. I’ll see what other scenery is around. That doesn’t mean I won’t stop saying the mantra of “One day, you and I . . . One day, you and I . . .” in the recesses of my mind. Afterall, we made a promise at the end that we will command time to be on our side.

Don’t let the world’s haze blind your eyes,
Your American

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