Relax. This isn't another Love Letter of Dooooooom. I've stayed true to my word and while I couldn't resist a poem a week or so ago, there are no odes to any crushes or lucky bastards I'm smitten with that I will regret in the morning and ultimately in perpetuity. I've learned my lesson which is not so much to guard my heart (still working on that one) but not to, as one wit said, announce it in surround sound. Now that I think about it, I'm failing that one miserably too but I'm TRYING!
It's true that when I care about someone I gush. I'm effusive and tell them how I feel, partially because it's a natural inclination, and partially because I've lost roughly half of the most important people in my world in the past few years, and nearly lost my own life as well. In fact, twice I considered taking my own. Not something to be proud of, but nevertheless, a fact. What I've learned through it all is that life is too short. Take a chance. Take a risk. Wing it. Say it. Say how you feel. Say what you mean. Communicate while you still can. And communication to me, especially from people I care about are little pearls. However you feel about me, tell me, because I'm telling you. That's a gift, my love.
A lot of people know who Spooky Oats is because he makes no secret of how he feels about me too. He is one of my best friends and while there may be 2000 miles of ocean between us, I trust him implicitly and instinctively and he has always, even at my most unreasonable demand, dropped everything when I needed him. I was there when he needed me and always will be and the day that one of us lands at the others' airport it will be a happy day but until now we get by via the internet's various means. He's seen me on Skype without makeup and still loves me. What more could a girl ask for?
I'll tell you. When he comes home from an exhausting day or night he IMs me and his adrenaline is so sky high that I get thrilled just listening to him talk about how awesome this or that was. I know who his heroes are. I know what makes him cry and I know his best friends' names. When he had a break-up and was confused, I hurt with him and cried and when I cried over two different men, he bent over backwards to make me feel lovable because I felt so lost and rejected. He asked for nothing in return but that he hopes he never makes me cry. He pores over my blogs and dissects my poetry. I know the words to most of his songs and watch the YouTube videos of his band religiously, proud and excited for him. He's my superstar. I'm his princess.
People think we have a 'thing' but I don't really care what people think. We make asses of ourselves posting here and there to each other for all the world to see. He says, 'You're my favorite,'. I say, 'I better be!' and he says, 'There's no competition.' There's a lot of chatter about me because when I talk, chat or write, whether it's about myself or others, my heart is open wide and what you see is what you get with me. I don't have a separate internet persona. I am as true as the words I write. And I can count on Spooky to be truthful to me even if it hurts, because I know in my heart, as flawed as he might think he is, he too is true and honest. I know where I stand with him.
Tonight I shared something very painful with him that only one other person knows and that person who I also care for deeply is choosing to remain incommunicado which had been killing me and we discussed that too. That person to the best of my knowledge doesn't ask me about myself or read my blogs and probably doesn't even know that a poem was written for him, poems that are becoming, I see, the newest incarnations of the Love Letters of Doom, jinxes all, yet still I write them, and as Spooky calls it, I am indeed a fickle woman and I asked Spooky if that person could redeem himself and he said, 'In reality no, but in your eyes, if he tries his very fucking best just because you hold less of a grudge than Karma does,' and it dawned on me that he knew me better than I gave him credit for. I didn't know that he knew how I could and have forgiven so much and let so much slide but he'd been listening and observing the whole time, patiently, ready to pick up the pieces, ready to hold me as best as he could from across an ocean.
Two out of three we have, and one day we may have the third, but you forgot one more; Gratitude. My cup runneth over.
Now write me a song.