She threw out all my letters

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 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? didn't know that those letters are selling on ebay for twenty dollars each these days. 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.

Confidential to Lamb Princess Penelope: I know this doesn't really do you justice within circumstances, I know that you loved the letters and are just someone who isn't a packrat. Next time I'll Xerox.