Hello You,
Ina,
the woman that still lays in the bed in my head and heart.
How are you?
I’d write to you but you won’t write back.
I remember writing that e-mail all those years ago in, 2013? When I was full of rage on New Years Eve/Day, and you wrote back with whimsy.
Then years of harassment.
I’m afraid I’ll be a man everywhere else in life, with every other part of my body, except for my heart.
I’m still some 19 year old boy that gets excited at the thought of you.
I wonder if this is what people mean when they say “loving someone means loving the thousand births and deaths of who they will become.”
Do those births and deaths spur on divorce?
Are those changes the catalyst to counseling?
And if we all die and are reborn, how come I feel the same?
Maybe I should just make that Spotify playlist.
Maybe I should just surrender to the feeling again.
But I want to move on.
I want to move forward.
I want to clear the air.
I want all the ugliness to come to the surface.
I want to be forgiven.
I want to love again.
Maybe, somewhere on your side of the planet you expected to see another e-mail.
I’d send one, but I don’t need to give the Norwegian Government more reason to arrest me.
I definitely don’t want that to happen again.
I’ve gone to therapy.
I’m taking medication,
but you’re still here, flying back into my open arms like a boomerang,
and I write these myriad words that say the same thing,
a love song on repeat,
a single,
a broken record.
Ess muss sein, muss esse sein, I suppose.