Dear Suitor xxx-xxx-xxx,
4616 miles is a pretty substantial distance. It’s about 3616 miles further than Vanessa Carlton was willing to walk for her mysterious tryst. It’s the difference between me falling asleep as you just leave work for the day, it’s the difference between my morning run, commute to work, a trip to Starbucks (and several Keurig refills) before your head ever lifts off your down pillow, most importantly its the distance between your hands and mine, and 4616 miles feels further than it ever has before.
I want to take a moment to ask you treat my heart kindly, to beg that you don’t take for granted that I’ve handed you my heart and the hammer to break it with tied up in the same pretty package with a bow on top. I’m smiling to myself out of nowhere, listening to Taylor Swift love songs and dancing around my room. I’m replaying folk song serenades at my desk, while doodling hearts all over my planner, all the while wondering if and when my heart will start plummeting down from this emotional apex before shattering into a million little pieces. I’m not sure if I can mosaic it back together again.
I want to ask you not to kiss me that way that you do, not to let my world spin recklessly out of control if you don’t feel the same way too. I don’t want the sweet messages that light up not just my phone, late at night, but my heart & I would give up the times I find myself unable to sleep but somehow still walking in a dream in exchange for my own sanity, for the security of knowing my heart is safe. Don’t kiss my forehead, don’t hold my hands, don’t call me your princess (anymore). It’s not fair if you look into my eyes with your sunflower scattered kaleidoscope blue eyes and steal my soul, please just don’t do that anymore. Don’t give me that hope because I had just grown accustomed to my own cynicism.
& I want to ask you not to hold me through the night, if you won’t be there beside me in the morning. Please save me the trouble of falling for your goofy smile, the way you nibble my ears gently, and those silly southern things you say. Don’t call me “Miss Daisy”, and let me fall forn your Gastby-ian ways. Don’t let me open my heart to your deepest fears, don’t make me tell you mine and let you comfort me when I feel all alone in the whole big world. Don’t try and understand me, you already know far too much. Don’t let me keep falling and falling the way I am now. If you don’t mean it, don’t cuddle me in that perfect little blanket cocoon, butterfly kissing me and teasing me with sweet serenades. No more surprises, no more opening doors, no more walking me to my car, it’s a blissful insanity and it’s making me weak. Don’t lead me on forever, this feeling has started to ricochet out of control. Don’t let me make you my moon and stars. Stop running through my mind night and day, ever so steadily like the waves on the beach. Don’t make me breakfast, don’t talk about pumpkin patches and weekend trips to Bavarian Christmas towns, don’t meow at me like that. Stop letting me count down the days until I can run into your arms again, cascading helplessly into you.
I want to request these things of you.
But instead I say “When can I see you?”
& suddenly the plane ticket is booked and I’m counting down the moments until you’re here beside me once again.