Open Letter #12, to the one who opened me

I hate the way I woke up with one of your songs in my head, your voice lighting up the walls of my sleepy brain; for a split second I basked in that illuminated space, warming in the glow of your lilt and call, before remembering you broke my heart. Then your voice haunted me all day, finding me in quiet moments so that I had no peace alone.

I hate the memory of your skin, so soft. I used to press my face to your bare back when you were sleeping and listen to your heart whispering in the dark. I cry, remembering. The tissues I wipe my face with scratch my cheeks.

I hate the way you undressed so casually with the curtains open, as if the world outside didn't matter. How I could not not watch you.

I hate that you threw me a surprise party for my birthday and that the memory of it has surprised me several times today. You are the only person who has ever thrown me a surprise party. I loved it, even though it was hard for me to get over the initial shock.

I hate the poems you wrote me, the pictures you sent me, the songs you played and sang for me, the hugs you gave. I close my eyes and feel your hair brushing my neck, your fingers on my back.

I hate the way we laughed together on the floor of my bedroom, my cat forcing himself between us, our eyes filling with gleeful tears. We were so funny together.

I hate the way we made love. I have never felt that close to anyone.

I hate the way you loved the families you worked with, the kids you taught piano--how your sincere and unabashed love for them softened your already soft voice whenever you talked about them, how that softness softens me even now when I want to be so hard.

I hate the way you told me I'm beautiful, how your words lodged in my heart and silvered the darkness. My heart glimmers with your sentiments, and you are not here to see the shine.

I hate the way you told me, four days before you ended our relationship, your fingers laced with mine as we moved through the airport, that you always wanted to fall in love on a plane, and that you had, with me, on our way home from visiting my family on the other coast.

Tonight, I could not bear to look at the fern you gave me as I watered her. I packed her into a bag, carried her to the trail I used to walk when we talked on the phone, found a spot dappled with sun and shadow, dug a shallow hole, tilted the green fringe of her into the earth, covered her roots, and wished her a long, healthy life without me.