the letters you didn't read

Dear May, 

I miss your eyes. They’re brown, a very deep brown. You hated them. But you didn’t see them like I did. Whenever you spoke of your flowers or happy memories, the sparkle of your joy would gleam in your eyes, glistening with hope and meaning. I miss the way you would look at me. Like I was something special. You’re the special one, you always were. As I write this, it’s morning, and the sunlight is peeking in the windows. Your eyes would be glued to the sun right now, and I’d be staring at you, wondering how someone could be so close to perfect. They say you won’t reply quick enough this way. They say I’m wasting my time. But I want to pretend we have a mysterious love story. I want to pretend I’m running away, like I’m stamping this in a hurry, like this is the only way to reach you without getting tracked. It’s better than reality. Fantasy always is. Besides, I don’t have your number, so this is the only way I can reach you. Heaven knows when, or even if you’ll get this. I think of you every day, you know. Sorry it took me so long to try and find a way to reach you. Do you miss me too?

With love,

Noah

Dear May,

I miss your smile. It was so sweet, so innocent. Rarely ever fake, because even the smallest things made you happy. Every time you’d smile and look at me, I couldn’t help but smile back. You’d purposely smile if I was having a bad day. Always trying to cheer me up. Don’t you know just you being there makes me happy? You haven’t written back yet. I’m blaming it on the mailman. Or maybe your mother threw the letter away before you could read it. She never did like me. Maybe I’ll put a different name on the envelope of this one, so it isn’t thrown away. But then it’ll look like some sort of spam mail. Is there spam mail, or only spam email? I’ll have to pay attention next time my grandmother goes on and on about back in her days. Maybe I’ll learn something. It’s around mid-afternoon right now. It’s a very dull time of day without you. 

Write back soon,

Noah

Dear May, 

I miss your hands. They’re so small and soft. They were always so cold, and you’d make me warm them up during winter. I didn’t mind if it gave me an excuse to hold your hand. You used your hands for so many things. Gardening was your favorite. I loved watching you garden. Your mother would tell you to garden something useful like vegetables, but you’d ignore her and plant your daisies and irises and everything you could find in the little market. Your hands moved swiftly, delicately touching the stems. I wish I had hands like yours, but my hands are large and clumsy and terrible for gardening. Do you still garden? You used to say you’d never stop, that one day we’d plant sunflowers together. I miss having those talks. I remember at the beach, you’d like to trace small hearts in the sand, and watch the waves wash them away. Your hands were good at everything. Your handwriting was always neater than mine. I hope I see your handwriting soon. Your cursive was lovely, and everyone in school used to ask you to write their names for them fancily. Of course you’d do it.  You were everyone’s friend. Everyone loved you, and you happily loved them back. You’re a ray of sunshine in a bland world, May. 

Keep shining,

Noah

Dear May,

I miss your voice. I know you never sang, but I don’t mean it in that way. I just miss our conversations. I miss when you used to tell me you loved me. I miss whispering with you when we weren’t supposed to be talking. I miss holding back my laughter with you. Nobody wants to talk to me anymore. I feel lonely, and it’s even worse when you aren’t alone. I miss listening to you talk. The teachers used to say you were quiet, but they knew nothing. No one knows you like I do. If you’re quiet, there’s just nothing to say. If you ever get these letters, which I’m sure are getting lost at this point, write me your number. I want to hear you. I want to close my eyes and pretend we’re close to each other. I’m good at pretending May, but I’m not good at pretending I’m okay. My mother is worried for me. She says she’s never seen me writing so much. I told her I’m fine, my hand’s only cramping a little. She says you aren’t answering and I should give it up. What do mothers know anyway, right? Everyone says they want the best for us, but they really want the best for themselves. They don’t want to look bad, so we have to be perfect. Is your mother still pushing you to be perfect? I wish we were together so I could help you like I used to. If I even made a difference. We should meet somewhere and then run away together. That’d be fun. 

Run away with me?

Noah

May,

I miss your stories. You’d tell me tales as we walked along the shore, the words falling out of you so fast, one would think they were true memories. Your mother called it lying, but you, you called it art. I always told you to write them down, but you never did. You aren’t replying yet, but if you ever do, maybe you’re bored enough to sit down and write me something. If you send that, you don’t even have to write a letter. You twist reality into the words, so I can figure it out. I just want to know if you’re reading these, that’s all. Are you ignoring me? Are you laughing that I still think of you, after all this time? Maybe you read them and throw them away yourself. Your mother might be rubbing off too much on you if you’re spending too much time alone. Are you even alone? It always seemed like you could mingle and make friends so easily, so that’s probably what you’ve done. You might not even remember my name. I’ll never forget yours. May. You aren’t born in May. I wonder why your mother chose to name you May. Who cares about your mother though, I only miss you. Your name matches your love for flowers. What is it they say, April showers bring May flowers? You loved the rain. On rainy days you didn’t have to water your flowers. I hate the rain. At least I do now. All it does is remind me of you. I think the mailman hates me now, I’m always asking him if there’s anything for me. Perhaps I’m not writing my address clear enough? I can’t imagine how people used to write letters so often. Then again, I think they only used it for important things back then. Peace treaties and things. You’re important to me, you know.

Noah

Dear May,

I miss you. All of you. I miss you so much it hurts. I feel so empty without you. Everything is dark without you. I miss walking with you, I miss sharing secrets, I miss your friendliness, I just miss being with you May. I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could relive our memories. Do you remember that time we jumped in the lake with all our clothes on? You got a cold. Your mother had scolded you but we didn’t care. Do you remember our first kiss? Do you remember how your mother reacted when we told her? Do you remember how I used to braid your hair? Do you remember the day you drew all over your hands, flowers and trees, with that black pen I gave you? Do you even remember me? How could you forget me, May? Maybe you’ve forgotten me on purpose. Maybe it was all a joke. Am I a joke to you May? I’m a joke to everyone else. Especially my mother. She says she’s throwing my paper away, just so I won’t write you anymore. So this is my last letter. Until I can find more paper, of course. I wonder if someone random is receiving these. Laughing at me. Maybe I’ve been writing your address wrong this whole time. I hate letters. I hate stamps and I hate the mailman especially. I would hate you, but I can’t. I could never. My sister planted some flowers today. You would like them. My sister always liked you. Then again, who didn’t?

Please don’t forget me May. 

Noah