v u l v a l i c i o u s
Call me a fool for love.
I didn't expect the envelope at the mailbox to be for me, and when I read my name it took me a moment to recognize the handwriting, at which point I tore through the top, excited to see what was inside:
one single sheet of notebook paper, folded around something smaller and thicker. It turned out to be a sweet trinket, something fun and silly. And a one side letter, bigger than a note but smaller than a missive.
But you're so sweet, still. Here, at least. Thoughtful. Darling.
And fuck if I don't love you still, just as much as I ever did. Every hurt brushed aside for just long enough that I think: I should call, write, text. Something. And I did. One email, longer than a few sentences but shorter than this entry.
Saying I'd write with you again, that I miss you. That seeing your handwriting on paper, I felt like you were standing next to me for a moment. It really did.
I'm a fool for love and I fall back in so quickly I hardly notice til I land. And I never stopped loving you (you also never stopped loving me, but the quality and texture of everything shifted and talking to you scratched against me like it was me who was wrong, not us and not you, and I couldn't resolve anything without letting the answer be that you gave up. Because. You did).
But here we are. In balance, somehow: you, asleep and far away, letter sent, hand extended. Me, awake and lonely, message returned, hoping we can hold each other the way we used to.