a lesson in running away (the art of returning)

Dear Fitz: in a black and white world (you'd still be golden)

(Dear Fitz,)

(Hey, Fi)

(I'm sorry,)

Fitz,

This is not an apology.

Because it's too late, isn't it? I'm already gone. I'm not sure if I miss you or not.

You'll be angry, won't you, that I ran away again. You are well-versed in abandonment but you still don't understand why I would do it. Why anyone would do it. (You can't possibly know that i)

I think we're past understanding. Let me help you.

In a world that was black and white, you'd still be golden. Guess gold's my favorite color for a reason. You probably don't know what the hell I'm talking about. You're never good at catching signals. In a world that was golden, you'd still be the brightest of all of us. Do you get it now? I sure don't.

Here, let me try again. In a world that was made of diamonds, you would shatter first.

Does that make more sense to you? Or should I keep seeing your face in my head when I'm trying to sleep, keep imagining your lips against mine even though it's clear that can never happen, keep on stringing words on a necklace until I find the right order to send to you (I won't send this to you)—

You were sweet. Sweet in a sour, salty, bitter world. Sweet the way that turns your stomach into mush, sweet the way that keeps you wanting more, sweet the way that poison frogs are bright colors so predators know not to eat them. Dangerous sweet. Wicked sweet. Terrifying sweet. You scared me, is what I'm trying to say. But that's not what made me run.

I want you more. I don't want you anymore? We are meant to be contradictions, question marks at the end of sentences that logically should use an exclamation point. Even if you're obviously still so obsessed with me that you'd open this letter that I'm not sending because it has your name that I traced onto my lips so often it probably left a mark, and I can say this because you won't ever see it. Maybe you won't recognize my handwriting that you'll never see again. Maybe this letter will be another piece of trash in a pile.

Why don't you recognize me, Fitz? Why don't you know me?

Fuck.

Why are you still in my head.

I'm going to leave you behind. I meant to leave my heart behind, but sewing it to Sophie's sleeve left needles in my stomach instead of butterflies.

I'm supposed to know how to feel but there isn't a definition for you.

Do you get it now? Do you get what I'm trying to say?

I'm saying my favorite color is golden because that's what you outshine. My Golden Boy, the failing perfection who couldn't stand the idea that he liked the perfect failure, the last thing I think of before I sleep and the first nightmare I have when I wake up.

A dream and a nightmare and a hallucination rolled into one, that's what you are, a sweet-smelling flower petal rubbed between your index finger and your thumb like how my heart got crushed open right there in front of you and you didn't even have the decency to mop up the blood.

But that's not what I'm saying.

I'm saying I know every acne scar on your face and I know about the hair dye you keep in the space under your sink just in case you ever get the courage and I know that you won't ever get the courage because you're a coward like me. Too cowardly to tell me you love me. Too cowardly to tell you that I hate you.

You're so obvious about it and it makes me wish that this world was easy. Makes me wish that there was doubt about it and that's why I'm not sending this. Instead, I'm not sending it because I know you won't try to find me if I do. Why do I keep waiting for you to find me when you're still waiting to find yourself?

Good thing I'm never sending this. Because you know the way my hair falls over my eyes and how my arm weighs around your shoulders and you've counted the freckles on my face when you thought I was sleeping (I wasn't sleeping. I felt your fingers feather-soft on my cheek) and you know me too well to let me stay away. You know me too well to let me come back.

This is another dare. You can't pick truth this time when I know you're so good at lying.

I wish you luck finding me. The coward I am. The cowards we both are.

(I said this wasn't an apology but maybe I'm asking for one)

Blame yourself for my disappearance, please.

(Love,)

(Your darling, your love, your everything,)

(The only thing you ever won by being yourself,)

-Keefe