A Letter to C., Never Sent

Dear C.,

I remember the chill in the air when you insisted

On driving me home even though you were sick, eyes bright and feverish

And you yelled at the boys who made me upset

Through the car window, the words flying out, away

And it felt like we were free: feverishly, euphorically free

I wish your troubles were the same

Thrown out the window near Reynolda Road and Hanes Park,

Forgotten, abandoned.

I wish that the weather hadn’t gotten warm, the heat

Clinging to skin like {anger, disappointment}

And chasing to catch up with you

The sun scattering colors, like bruises under my eyelids

And you didn’t speak, jaw set, staring forward

And then tears were pouring down—

 you held me so tight that my chest hurt

As you said you better off dead than here.

We were both writers, but you were the speaker

Great orations tumble from your lips,

Oozing charisma, exuding confidence.

My words are only solid on paper

Speech wriggles from my grasp, dripping through my fingers

What words can heal?

The tired platitudes seem cheap,

But what else can I offer?

Because I know I can’t heal your wounds if I wrap you in bubble wrap,

but I hope you won’t shatter if I slip up

And I hate how I turn every ‘I love you’ into ‘Are you okay?’

Because it sounds almost like a goodbye.

And I wouldn’t give us up for anything,

but sometimes I wish you were still the strong one