I wrote her poems on the back of puzzles. I gave her my sweatshirts. The words I expressed, they were me; how I felt, the things I knew, all about her. I poured my essence into her, gave myself. It was not easy, she was the tenant of my soul. I had vested interest within her, she was me. I was in love. Granted, it was young love - the type that inspires poetry and gentle kisses. Olived her.
When we found one another again on this strange scavenger hunt, buried in clues - we melted into bliss of days past and a present that allowed comfort we had longed for forever. Our time was easy, a breeze, the bluest of blue in my vulnerable state. I could not let go, I held onto this wrong side of the brink with all my might, knowing if I went over that I would deprive myself of all that I had been searching for since her absence.
I forgot that she was evil.
She told me that she threw out all of my old letters, everything I had ever given her. She said that she remembered how they felt, turning them over in her hands and rereading my thoughts. I could not believe her. I did not want to. I wanted to run away, shun her from my success. I didn't.
I said, "It's okay, they were yours to do what you wanted to with".
I really meant that this wasn't like John Steinbeck burning his writing to start over new. This wasn't a request from Franz Kafka to his friend Max Brod to burn his work. She let go, turned around and walked away. Did she feel? . That they were worth something to me and still are. Worth everything
I felt empty, betrayed by myself that I would trust one with words so dear. These were memories. They were art. I gave to a woman who doesn't even still love me. A woman who makes me feel like a lost child, abandoned.
These were memories. They were art. She was the inspiration.