Dear Thomas

Dear Thomas,

There are a plethora of words in the English language, words that consist of an even larger number of letters that we attribute certain sounds to. Sometimes I wonder how twenty-four different shapes can be combined in various patterns to create things that can make us happy or sad and the array of emotions in between. What additionally strikes me is how powerful these words can be and how much pain they can inflict on us and our relationships.

We've exchanged a lot of words, which is what I liked the most about us. You and me, we weren't afraid to tell each other how our day went, how we were feeling, if we were having a bad day or not. I told you things I'd never told anyone and you did the same. It was like we shared the same body; I didn't have to open my mouth and you would know what I was thinking, what I was going to say, or what I was trying to hide. I must admit, it was frightening to have someone to whom you were a piece of cellophane, but it was also the most beautiful feeling in the world.

When I told my friends how much we talked, they were surprised and told me that it was too good to last, too rare to last and advised me to treat this friendship with caution. But I knew that they were wrong.

The thing is Thomas, it should hurt that you've broken me into a million pieces and that I'm alone with my broken pieces. It should hurt that I've forgotten what piece fits where and that each piece is breaking at every move, every thought, and every touch. But it doesn't. What hurts is that you're keeping something from me; what hurts is that you're afraid to tell me what's going on inside and that it's causing you to pull away from me. Why won't you share your words with me when I've shared all my words with you? Was that why you didn't wish me happy birthday, because you were afraid that your words would slip out, that I'd know that you were hiding?

When tiny volcanoes erupting all over my flesh, you could see them and you enveloped me in your embrace, your skin water that flooded my skin which made the fire in the volcanoes lesson and the pain come to a stop. And when I woke up in the morning the volcanoes disappeared but you were still there. Your words have disappeared and I'm still here. And the only escape I have from the pain of your missing words is the physical pain that I inflict on myself in the shower and the painful sob which escapes my lips when the physical pain overcomes the emotional pain.

There are a plethora of words in the English language, words that consist of an even larger number of letters that we attribute certain sounds to. Sometimes I wonder how twenty-four different shapes can be combined in various patterns to create things that can make us happy or sad and the array of emotions in between. But then I think of our relationship, of our broken friendship, of our broken love, and I think of all the words we were and I think of how words broke us apart.