Ode To Dakota

The table jolted as you set my water on it. I examined its legs for poor craftsmanship but soon noticed your rueful grin betray your clumsiness. I knew then that anything you did, I could forgive. 

My dear Dakota, I write you this letter, despite its unlikelihood of ever reaching you, to thank you for forever changing the track of my thoughts and connecting them all back to you. I thank you for the words you have whispered against my ear that still linger during sleep. At midnight I race through countless forests and cities in hopes of finding you again, but the limpness of my body and the darkness in my vision counterbalance my intent. The neighbors have complained about your name fleeing my lips so desperately, yet they cannot comprehend that I would rather seal my mouth than utter your sacred name into the corruption of the world—that I am selfish and would sacrifice my speech to keep to myself as much of you as I have left. Despite my attempts, it is not until I wake up in a cold sweat that I realize your final departure cannot be changed.

You always shimmered, but only when I was burning into ashes did I realize the blaze in your light. So unfamiliar to colors had I become with my dull life that the green in your eyes reminded me of the beauty in nature. Your earrings jingled as you marched towards another table, prompting a smile from every guest after you praised their choice from the menu. I had not planned on staying long, did you notice? But after my initial order, I asked for a pastry every time one of your tables cleared, just to keep by my side a little longer. 

I reproached myself for not having dined at the restaurant sooner. All I knew was work and the mundane chores that came after. Was I a pleasant addition to your nights as you were to mine? Against my will, I am now left with limited memories and years to reminisce about them. People say to forgive and forget, but how could I ever forget the most precious thing that has happened to me? Without you, I am nothing. 

I find myself writing this letter because the crumbled papers on the floor with your name on every line lack the details to keep your memory alive. Dakota, Dakota, Dakota. I must remember how your hands felt on my skin, brushing your fingertips ever so slightly as if you were too afraid of leaving a mark. I wish you had, simply to have physical proof of your existence and to remind myself that I did not imagine you because you were too perfect for me. When all I knew was a routine, you taught me how to live. Replacing my self-hatred with compliments, when I said “selfish,” you argued “ambitious” and when I cried “weak” you offered “gentle.” You showed me that to be angry is to know my value and to understand that I am capable of receiving more than I have gotten. 

Dakota, you have stirred in me a passion. Learning I am capable of wanting you compensated for losing you. I understand dogs bark because they have something worth fighting for, and birds chirp because they hope to be heard. I can forgive your leaving because you have detangled what is inside me.

I do not recall if it was during the fourth or fifth dinner that you mentioned you wanted to meet me for a drink. I do vividly remember you walked into the dimmed room with your head raised and eyes fixed on your destination. Perhaps, because you have handpicked every single one of your personality traits, and too much would go to waste if you merely dragged them with you. I will always wonder how their weight has not slowed you down yet. You built yourself from scratch, but having loved you so fiercely I wonder what parts of you were there before the notepad turned blank. What was it that you did not deem worthy? If this letter ever reaches you, please tell me so that I can also admire your faults. 

That morning at the park, when you rested your head on my lap, you asked what I was whispering. Now that time has passed and I am too afraid of forgetting, I can tell you “thirty-nine, forty, forty-one” counted the freckles spattered on your face. I confessed my love for them and hoped to be the only person allowed the proximity to count them. You smiled at my comment, but it was not the same smile you offered at strangers, because as your eyes squinted, your cheeks reddened to match the color of your hair. It must have meant something. Please, how I hope it meant something. 

I have realized now that the point of living is to experience emotions, not necessarily to act upon them. This is why I praise you for breaking my heart and proving me wrong. I lived my entire life believing that I was incapable of loving. I thought my arrogance and grimness would never allow for such unnecessary feelings. Now I welcome love and devotion as I accept agony and yearning. To mourn is to acknowledge what has marked you. And you, my love, have left scars in my heart, shaped like your hands as if you were still holding me. If only I could rip myself to pieces for a last chance to feel your touch. 

You are the answer to all my questions. All my changes trace back to you. As you often did, I have begun to smile at strangers in hopes of maybe one day smiling back up at you. 

Our last dinner differed from our first because now you sat in front of me. My dining room has not changed since you left me. I am afraid that altering the space would alter the memory in my mind. I remember your faltering smile as you looked away when I told you that I loved you, how the chair creaked as you stood and bumped into the table. 

Your words “I need a moment” lingered despite your leaving for the kitchen. Not a minute without your presence could I withstand, and so I found myself once again offering “I love you”s to the back of your head. 

The wine glass you just poured shook in your hand as you walked towards the open window and for once I understood its need to spill for a chance to reach you. You reminded me of everything I have ever let go of, but this ache in my heart was unfamiliar. 

It was not until I stepped closer that your whispering “sorry”s became clear to my ears. I must have done something wrong. As your head raised and shoulders tightened, I felt that same fear preys must feel seconds before their predator forces on them. I mumbled desperate words that went ignored as the cry of a deer has never stopped a tiger. But my dear, now I thank you. In seconds you have made me feel what I have been deprived of my whole life. Oh, to meet you once more merely to experience what it is like to be seen by you, to be hurt by your sharp tone and your hasty goodbye. 

You have taught me that hearts can resemble art, molded to wishes and broken when the result does not reach the expectations. That night, you walked past a torn heart, but by the confidence in your steps, I realized this was not your first time.