Dear Sweet Potato,
I’m doing okay without you. At least I think I am. A whole lot of watching a lot of TV and exercising and eating a bunch of candy. Perhaps maybe that means, you know, I’m making strides in moving on. But as we both know, writing you letters in the still of the night isn’t exactly what anyone would call moving on.
And as I pretend to not understand why we aren’t together and forget why we shouldn’t be, here I am writing confusing ass sentences that even I need to step back and comprehend because even I don’t know what I’m staying. I don’t use my nook anymore, but imagine all the heartbroken, confused letters you would’ve received in your email if I still did.
You know, a little flirting here and there (trying to see if you notice). I hate flirting with anyone or anyone flirting with me. I just feels wrong. I know you said not to say this, but I’m yours and you’re mine. Right? Right. Well, I don’t think you’ve moved on at all. I haven’t. Not at all.
I’m not even supposed to be sending you these. It would go against our future friendship rules. And it would infringe upon giving each space. And it wouldn’t align with me trying to leave you alone for weeks straight. Because then I would have to start my counter all over again. But that would suck because I’ve already went seven days, you-free. I swear it’s like I’m addicted with you or something. So I’ve just went ahead and written you a hypothetical letter. The kind you never get to read.
I think about you so often that it kinda feels like we weren’t real at all, like maybe we just made all of it up. Of course, that can’t be true because other people remember too. And there are pieces of us, like, everywhere. I don’t even know where. You just pop up from corners I didn’t know existed. And I pull back pieces of you I didn’t know I kept.
Tell me, do you miss me? When you lie in bed, do you think about me? Of how we cuddle in your sheets, of our legs entwined, asking me ‘Do you think you could sleep like this?’. Do you think of all our nonsense jokes? Do you remember my dry humor? Do you remember all those future plans we were making? Do you remember all the times I fought for you? All the times you fought for me? Do you think of us kissing in the stairwells? You think of me at all?
What are you even doing? Don’t answer that. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I love you alright. I love a lot alright. And I am not ashamed nor embarrassed by that. Because I’m crazy about you. And I am having difficulty truly understanding why we aren’t happening. I am so patient with this relationship. And maybe you believe we don’t have a relationship right now. But yeah, yeah we do.
My friend Kelly once asked me why I was so forgiving with you. She asked if I thought I was gonna marry you or something. And even though I didn’t tell her, yeah, okay, yeah. I thought we were gonna get married or something. I thought we were gonna ravel the world. And I thought we were gonna have all those adventures, the ones we vaguely talk about, but never outrightly state because we just assume they’re gonna happen.
And here I am, trying to bring up passion that alive inside of me. Hey, maybe that passion, if there was any, is dead in you when it comes to me. Or maybe it’s there and you choose to ignore it.
I keep trying to think of ways to win you over. The lists I’ve made. There aren’t many. And I exhausted quite a number. No lie, you aren’t making it easy at all. Ha! Maybe I should’ve written you more letters right after we broke up. I don’t even remember. Did I send you one at all? Maybe one? Letters always worked.
One more week or two. I just need to breathe. I’m about to cry a bit. You would tell me to me relax or something. Maybe you would try to calm me down and tell me to breathe. I don’t know. Damn I miss you.