music wednesdays

I haven't heard his voice in months. To be perfectly honest, the last time he called, he didn't sound like he used to. I'm starting to believe that he has been killed and replaced by a far inferior version of himself, full of excuses and lies and drained of love.

The songs I send him weekly convey a subtle, almost subliminal theme to him: "A letter in your writing doesn't mean you're not dead." sings Frank Black. The words "now you're all gone/ got your make-up on/ and you're not coming back" can barely be deciphered in "Anthems For a 17 Year Old Girl," but they're there...

Then there is the guilt. The guilt, the guilt. Shit! "Everybody knows the reason for the fall, when woman tempted man down in paradise's hall. This woman tempted me, oh yes, and she took me for a ride. But like the weary fox, I need a place to hide." I took all the love that poor boy could give me and left him there like a fox on the run. I can't help but think that I was the reason that he was unhappy here; I was the reason he left the country. Now he's stuck in a place he hates, with little hope of ever leaving, and I feel like I ruined his life.

I write him every week, sometimes two or three times a week, depending on my level of desperation. He writes back, sometimes. The ecstasy I feel seeing his name in my inbox is quickly quashed when I see that he's written two sentences to me, about nothing in particular. I forget why I even liked him, but I still can't let go.

He almost just hung up the phone the first time we talked, when I told him my age. I wish he had! I wish I had never met him! I wish... I wish I could forget.