letter forty six

Attention: Love—Relationship Department,

I am writing in regards to your recently posted position of “beloved.”  While I’m sure you’ve received resumes from many qualified candidates, I assure you that I am the one you are looking for.

You probably recognize my information and my picture.  I’m no first-time applicant.  As a matter of fact, I frequent your site multiple times a day, sometimes an hour, awaiting an opening in your company: a vacancy to be filled.  I point this out to illustrate my determination.  I’m a self-starter—a real go-getter.  Exactly what your company needs.  I am persistent.  I’ve applied hundreds of times, and yet the rejection doesn’t deter me!  How is that for resilience?

I have performed years of research for your company.  I’ve studied first hand accounts, gathered artifacts, collected data, read books, and performed studies.  I’ve written songs, written poems, written letters.  All of this work has been, naturally, volunteer work and without compensation.  I don’t mind though!  I consider it an investment on the position I just know you’re bound to offer me some day soon.  (My fingers are crossed that today is the day!)

What experience do I have?  Well, I’ve worked for some of your other departments for years.  I’ve held the positions of Sister, Daughter, and Friend and my work is known nationally and internationally.

Oh?  That isn’t the kind of experience you’re looking for?  Well.  Umm…there was this one guy…and then another this one time…

Alright, listen.  Enough with formalities, Love (that’s never been my forte anyways). I’m going to give it to you straight.  I don’t have any of the experience you’re looking for, but don’t you see?  The only way for me to get the experience I need is to land a job with you guys.  I’m not afraid.  I can do this.  All I need is one big break, and I promise I’ll make your company proud.  Please.  Please take a chance on me.  Have faith in me.  I can DO THIS.  I have no doubt that all other applicants are more qualified than I, but they don’t need this the way I do.  Please.

Sorry.  That was a bit…much, right?  I am a bit much.

I reckon I’ve blown it again.  My desperation seeps between the words onto the page.  Everyone tells me if I don’t need the position as badly as I do, one day I’ll just get it.  Ha.  We’ll see.  Expect another application soon.

‘Till then,


P.S. Please don’t forward my application to the “Hook-ups ltd.” temp agency.  I’ve done a few gigs with them, and I’d rather be unemployed.

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letter forty five

Dear Love,

Hey old friend.  Hope this letter finds you well.  Then, what letter DOESN’T find you well?  At least, the “real you”.  The kind that faileth not.

Love, I owe you an apology.  I must tell you about the run-in I had with one of your imposters.  Most unsettling,  I know.  I shouldn’t act so surprised.  I suppose I owe him an apology as well.  Oh I’ve met him before.  The first time was February of last year.  He was so handsome and tall, blonde hair and beautiful penetrating blue eyes.  He wore a blue and purple plaid shirt and jeans.  He touched the arch of my foot as I sat on the couch and he on the floor.  I sat next to him as the hours wore on, and he read to me with my head on his shoulder.  Oh!  How I wanted for him to be you!

We stood by the bookshelf and I thought out-loud after sharing a beautiful quote about you.  “I wonder sometimes, what are we afraid of?”

“Oh.”  He said.  “I see.”

He took me into his arms, and he gave me what I thought was your kiss.  I guess I didn’t read the fine print because he left me with his kisses and his words.

“What are you thinking?” I asked the next night, our eyes locked.

“What you will look like…in 10…20 years.”

The next morning he was gone.

The whole mistake made me a bit crazy.  I read a passage from my journal around that time, “Can’t breath.  Still choking on my own words.”

I would not be fooled again.  I spoke of YOU.  I read books on YOU.  I made vows to stay true to YOU.

The morning of New Years Eve.  The same people, on the other side of the country.  You’re probably wondering what on earth I was doing there.

We spoke in his kitchen that Friday morning, snow draped over all of Queens, light seeping through the glass and getting all over the tile.  He stood as he made bread with currants and I sat at the table stirring the blueberry muesli and vanilla rice milk he gave me for breakfast as we spoke.  I still drink rice milk.  I brought him a ginger candy and began to cry.  He hugged me close to him and the rest, was history.

No really, history repeating itself.  Once again I found myself searching his hair, his lips, his eyes for you.  The difference?  This time, I knew I wouldn’t find you.

He kissed my hair, my head, my forehead my cheeks, my neck, my eyes, my ears, my lips.  How I wanted him to be you.  How willing I was to lie to both of us.

At one moment truth overwhelmed me, and I began crying again.  I pushed him away.  “C…this isn’t what either of us are looking for.”

He brushed my hair out of my eyes and looked at me with a kind smile (Does not that sound like something you would do?  Wait for this…)

“Maybe” he said, “We should stop looking.”

I shot him a glance that compelled him to hear what he was saying.

“I’m sorry” he muttered as he buried his face into my neck.

“I know,” I whispered, tears swelling.

I’ll leave out the rest of the details, Love.  I remember how much they offended you.  So much, in fact, that I felt your absence from the very moment he put his arms around me.  He filled your vacancy for a time, but as soon as he left, I was without either of you.  The weight of the guilt was painful—not nearly as painful as the emptiness created by your absence.

So love, I am sorry.  I’m not afraid that I hurt you.  You are resilient and seem to exist and flourish with or without my consent.  I am sorry that I created such distance between us.  I know I’ve been forgiven.  I know I haven’t learned all you are trying to teach me.

I don’t blame him.  Not anymore.  I forgive him, as you have forgiven me.  May he and I both learn to live more honestly.



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letter forty four

Dear Love,

Perhaps it goes without saying that I’ve always fallen easily. But let’s face it, you tend to be really nice to have around. You have stick-to-it-ness (unlike you’re imposters Crush, Lust, Passion, Adoration, and Idolization). Your loyalty is unwavering. And thus, it is nearly impossible to be disloyal to you. I would die for you, forgive the unforgivable for you, tolerate the intolerable for you, stand by lost hopes for you, work my body to the bone for you, give up my belongings for you, give up myself for you. And your divine reciprocation, whether if only felt for an instant or throughout all eternity, is worth it. But Love, I just wish you were less friendly with Betrayal. I mean, Crush, Lust, Passion, Adoration, and Idolization don’t seem to mind departing at a moment’s notice when he comes around. But you, Love. You stick around even as poison floods veins, rips through organs, and rots the last fiber of one’s very being. You endure wounds that nothing save the virtue of Time is capable of bandaging. But the real difference between you and them, Love, is that even after death, you still survive. And once someone is blessed with your presence, they cannot simply will you to depart. No, Love, you stay. Even if the space you inhabit attempts to numb itself to your presence, your sunbeams sneak through the crevices in stone cold hearts and shed light on dark places. And even when you depart for a time, only to come back to breath new life into to old things, your scent sticks to pillowcases as a reminder you were there. For if we could forget you, Love, we would have no way of remembering you. And if we could not remember you, we would have little reason to seek you. And if we did not seek you, Love, we would be doomed to contend with the impossible swiftness of Crush, Lust, Passion, Adoration, and Idolization.

Perhaps it’s best that you’re so loyal; even to Betrayal. For if your loyalty had limits, your divine presence could not be felt so infinitely. So for that, Love, as I lay here watching steam rise from the hot blood that trickles from my frozen body, I thank you.


Yours truly,


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letter forty three

Dear LOVE,

Let’s hit it.

First and foremost, F— you.

Ok thanks. Didn’t want to beat around the bush to begin with…like most instances dealing with you.

But I’m not angry with you.  I want you.  I once thought you were “be all-end all.”  But that would be happiness and a ‘lil something no one can describe, something Godly, unworldly.  You are just one word that that, according to the Greeks, can be dissected in more ways than one.  Of course brotherly love, people get.  We love our mothers, family, friends.  We show empathy and unite with our neighbors for yet a different kind of love.  Anything erotic I wouldn’t even want to tie in with you.  I think that’s where you got f—ed to begin with (pun…intended?)  And well, eroticism is biological, anthropological, etc.  YOU are what?  Disney, Hallmark-promoted?

And here I am.  Finishing a paragraph to you with a question mark.  There’s our rub with you, lovey.  We question you.  STILL.  We want our answers.  You are redefined every day based on what we perceive as you.  Now I’m starting to feel bad for you.

Let’s use Jane for instance.  Jane watches Cinderella at age 5 and sees love.  Wants it because it’s surrounded by glitz and singing animals who doesn’t LOVE that?  Then Jane gets her period and feels love for a boy in math class.  But boy in math class hasn’t hit that physical progress and lovessss his Nintendo.

Jane’s love is the first thing that stirs within her but is suddenly clouded by fear, embarrassment, (insert the obvious weird crush feelings here as well).  Poor Jane.  Now she can shake her fist at love.  And this is where you get sliced again.

Jane can either end up with math boy or not, and she’ll define you according to that.  According to our daily interactions and relationships we judge you.  Re-judge you.  Eat Ben and Jerry’s while we watch movies with your name in the title.  We’ll even lie that we “love” another human being to have sex.  Think about it.  Ich, remember that thing about you and eros…

Love, love love.  One syllable and fun to say.  I’ve only had butterfly type feelings once or twice but that was unrequited love so I’m not the professional on you.  OR should I say I’m choosing not to define you in accordance to my interactions with people I’ve been attracted to but haven’t committed to.

And there have been plenty of physical type interactions with people but none that sparked those f—ing butterflies.  Only instances where I was drunk with laughter and silliness and adventure and a “yes-and” attitude.  But then I didn’t “feel” anything so I brushed the thought of you away.

To sum it up.  I like the idea of you love.  I love the storge, phile, and agape loves.  Its those other ones that fuel people’s opinions of you, fuel the biggest flames and the ones that cause either extreme sadness or joy.

Love, I’m hungry.  I wish you could make me a sandwich.  So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make MYSELF a sandwich because I like them.  Hmmm, “like”…now THERE’S someone to write a letter to.


I believe in you.  Just maybe not the glitz and singing animals way.  Although there is a 1% thing in me that would totally welcome that if it exploded in front of my face.

Sincerely, <– do you love how I didn’t end it with “Love,”


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letter forty two

Dear Love,

I used to believe you were the foundation of true happiness, themeaning of life and existence. But when I sought you out, I did it not out of this theoretical conviction, but as a drug addict looking for a fix. But you were not a drug, I had once believed. Drugs give a temporary rush of pleasure followed by irreversible and destructive consequences accompanied with terrible addiction. You, on the other hand, are a substance that lifts, expands, and broadens the individual, with a rush that can last for all eternity if properly cared for. This is you, Love. The meaning and light of life.

I now see how naive I was, that my edenic mind was wrong; that you are the most dangerous and destructive drug in existence. Your affects are worse than even the most destructive and addictive chemical. Your destructive potency comes two fold. First, from the fact that you don’t destroy the body and mind like other drugs. You destroy the heart and soul of the individual. You lift someone so high, that when they fall, their destruction is more painful than any injury, more corrosive than any disease, and more maddening than any imbalance of chemicals. Second, you cannot be enjoyed alone. Two or more people must share you, Love, in order for someone to have you at all. And this is without a doubt the most terrifying fact of all. You are the warmest company and the greatest companion, but when the other decides she no longer wants you, or no longer feels you, or would rather share you with someone else, I am powerless to stop you from leaving. I am completely at your mercy. I am completely at her mercy. And the horror is that no matter how much I hold on to you, Love, the moment she withdraws it from me, I am left with nothing. No, I am left deficit.

But there is one similarity you have with other drugs, Love. You are addicting. Unrelentingly addicting. Even though you pulled yourself so suddenly from my desperate hands, leaving my heart completely and irrectifiably shattered, my soul woefully darkened, and my entire existence questioned, I still seek you out. I still want you, more than anything. I still want you, Love. Though my head begs me to retreat, there is no other replacement, no other form, that can possibly fill the void in my soul for love; no substance that can quench the urge, no argument that can stay the craving.

So I go on looking, seeking, reaching for you. Even before the scars on my heart can go from red to white, even before my soul can once again gasp fresh air, I reach for you, ready for you to destroy me, heart and soul, once again. I am a doomed addict. I am a mindless zombie. I am a broken slave. I am completely subjected to Love

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letter forty one

Hey Love.

It’s another Friday night. I’m sitting at home… on my computer. I really would like to have a word with you right now.

Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can just mess with people like this? You’re like a bundle of hanging carrots. I think those have proven unethical. I was promised full nights and long walks on beaches. I was promised sunlight catching my hair and being beautiful so someone. I was told that if I were good, some man would see that, and know how much he needed me. Did he forget? Did you forget to tell him? Tell him! I am growing impatient.

In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d get off my back and leave me in peace. I have a lot of work to do, and I don’t really have much time to wonder about what you are up to. Respond if you have something nice to say to me.


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letter forty

Dear love,

Hi. I wish I knew you better. I wonder a lot of times about what you’re doing, and where it is that you’re hiding out. It’s like that Alanis Morisette song, where she’s writing letters to all of her ex-boyfriends. She says to one of them, “I will always have your back and be curious about you.” That’s how I feel about you, love. I want to be supportive of you; I want to believe in you and I want to know that you are there and even available for me. If you could just give me something to subsist on during this time when I don’t know you, I would have your back- I would defend you to the death. I would be a supporter and glorify your good name in every breath. For now, I will be curious about you.

What is your work? What is your passion? Is it your goal to bring happiness to people? Or to bring misery and heartache? What is your driving force? I used to be angry with people I knew who said that they were in love. I felt like they couldn’t have possibly known what that meant. I regret my anger towards them, because who was I to know? I felt so superior. I used evidence I heard one time that people loose their minds when they feel like they’re in love: they do crazy things, and their other responsibilities wane, taking a back seat to the idiotic other half of their personal whole. I think I was jealous, really. I think I wanted to know their inspiration and understand their rationale, because I didn’t think it was real.

I’ve doubted you, and pretended your existence, and thought I knew you, but you always surprised me, love. You are the great humbler of my heart. You are teaching me how to reach and how to grow and how too change. Sometimes I consider my capacity to project your effect, and I think it’s probably great, albeit a lot of work. What I really want, love, is to have someone send it back to me. All of the messy ramifications of that, I will accept. I’ll take the poor grades and the slogging work ethic. I’ll take the wrinkles under my eyes for the long nights spent under the stars with another beating heart. I’ll take the blow to my pride for the possibility of admitting that I know you, love.

Please come quickly.


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