Once Dear John

a letter to remember why i chose to forget

Once Dear John—

I wonder if you meant it when you said 
“I’m in love with you,”
the clearest declaration ever spoken by flesh,
the most
crystalline
I’d ever heard you breathe
was that moment in time—
my stomach 
swaying seasickly
in that boat 
between lands.

We reached the shore 
and that which followed was a blur
of fantastical impossibilities
I always failed to emulate.

When I tried
to wade back into my ocean
to escape 
your enveloping sand,
your promise 
of elementary 
princely protection 
shattered
like the tiny seashells I collected
that you crushed under 
your feet. 

Your eyes opened, 
you saw
I did not need your protecting,
but rather, 
you wanted Mine. 

You always wanted saving when
you scraped your knees against grass
and the stars in my sky
shimmered too brightly. 
You needed me 
to join you in your lightless 
nights
to dim my
hopefulness
as evidence of loyalty,
as evidence of loving—

as evidence, 
you wanted
to live off of 
the salt 
of my teary eyes. 

When I
let all my candles out
still,
it was not dark enough for you. 

Then I, in a final fit
of horrible aching
and horrid sobering, 
untethered 
my possibilities 
from yours. 
There was no more blue house, 
and there were no more cats, 
or children with hippie names. 

There was only 
me
and there was 
you. 

Once dear John,
I had to run into the water
to save not just myself,
but you too, you know.
I had to let 
the waves carry us each
to separate ends of
earth
so we wouldn’t
have to fight
each other's
incomparable battles
forevermore, 
so we wouldn't 
forever be drowning
in saltwater.