A Letter I've Been Meaning To Write

Dearest William,

Hello, darling. How have you been? It seems like eternity since the last time we corresponded. It was another life for me. I wore black every day, accenting with deep moss green and shamrocks, I wept openly in the shadows of the theatre when considering the tragic, unrequited love in my life, and you brought out the poetry in my life, even though it was filled with geometry, Cool Beans, sweet sangria, and pimples. It was high school.

We've slipped out of touch. You've changed, to me, you've changed. I look at you, and I no longer see an awkward, terrified adolescent know-it-all reflected back. I see a simple mother longing to rekindle that desperate, pathetic teen passion I felt reading your words when I was sixteen.

We talked about you in school last night. We watched a video about your works, your writings, and I was the only one familiar with your life and your accomplishments. Everyone else was a stranger to your genius. I felt like we were talking about an ex-boyfriend of mine, someone I had an affair with. That's what you feel like to me--an old affair.

And now that I am single, open, and ready for love, I say--if you are ready, my darling--that you come back and we finish what we started. I am ready to have you again--rose petals, chocolates, whispered sweet nothings into my ear, jealousy, sunlight on the sheets, violins, quills--I am ready for it.

Or just a quickie in a cheap motel room with dollar store wine and a toupee.

Or you could just leave your plays on my doorstep and let me handle it myself.

How I've missed your words, William.

It's good to see you again, old friend.