A letter written, never sent.
This weekend hasn’t treated you well. You haven’t told me everything that’s happened, but it seems like it’s just been one thing after another. It also seems like your whole life has been that way. I don’t know everything about that, either.
I went through some of our emails from the summertime tonight. The world seemed a lot lighter to carry then for some reason.
I’m not sure why I felt the need to write this. You’ll probably never see it, and I really don’t have much to say. Maybe that’s why, because when you called me tonight I kept wishing I had those magic words that would suddenly make things perfect for you. Manageable, even. You weren’t looking for that, but still.
I guess I just wonder who gets to take care of you, you know. I know you tend to get through things on your own, and you don’t want anyone feeling sorry for you. I get that. I love that. But everyone needs someone that can pick them up off the floor once in a while. Even you. Maybe you’ll let me be that person one day, or maybe that spot is already taken. I don’t know. I’m rambling, and this probably doesn’t make any sense.
It sounded better in my head.
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