this is a Dear John letter
n. informal – a letter from a woman to a man, ending a personal relationship.
I like eating breakfast with you. Waking up late and wandering down the stairs to see a pile of toast on the table, no longer hot but still warm enough for butter to melt on it. On early days I take out honey, and try to convince you that it gives your coffee a more sophisticated edge, but you drink it with too much cream and too much sugar anyway. You laugh at me downing cold bird's nest after I finish my toast and your toast, but I know you're just jealous my grandmother sends me cartons of little jars of bird's nest whenever I sound tired on the phone.
It strikes me as funny now, when I look at the clock and the time is 01:22 am, but I turn over and go back to sleep. Or rather – carry on with my imaginary conversations with you in my head. In one, you flirt with me and for once you render me speechless. Another, you declare your love for someone else and I nod as if I understand, as if that explains everything. Really, I would, and it would. I wish you were yourself in my dreams. How much less heartbreaking that would be, more convincing. "I love you" and "cheer up" are always therapeutic in defusing situations.
I know I shouldn't be writing you a letter, or singing you a song from a friend's apartment, the words barely carried over the pulsating beat of music, blaring. But you wouldn't have wanted to hear it from me in person, anyway. I can't imagine us walking in a park bordered with bougainvillea and umbrella canopies – I can't imagine leaving you behind if we were walking together.
Before we knew each other, I saw you around. I never imagined you'd be the boy to make me feel like my entirely unglamorous existence and depression was actually worth my while. I don't know about you, I don't know if I even know you, hell. I would like to fall in love with you though, very, very desperately. You and your silences that are always noisier than they seem, your pretentious gravity that pulls you into my orbit, your little needs that I find endearing, the mystery of your lips, all of that.
I always have dramatic exits, so this is a first time I'm leaving without tears, without flowers, without waves. I give to you a paper bag of letters and an agglomeration of scrap paper and notes, all written to you, just that I never bothered to let you read them. Fan mail, all your fan mail from me.
Stop to smell the flowers, sometimes.