I wrote you a letter today. It was all but sent; tri-folded, sealed in an envelope, stamped, and addressed, but I threw it in a drawer.
I know that once I dropped that letter in the mailbox there was no getting it back, and that could be detrimental depending on your reaction. In typical Jackson fashion, it is one lengthy metaphor that draws parallels between our situation and a natural disaster. I romanticized our natural disaster, just as I romanticize everything I write about, but I also exposed the cracks in our thinly-built foundation.
Putting pen to paper allowed me to vent my frustrations and feelings out into the open without fear of recourse. The emotion-filled ink finally dried after I wrote, rewrote, and perfected everything I had to say. There would be no coarse words or emotional arguments, but there would be room for interpretation and response. If I sent it.
I read over that three-page letter multiple times, each time nodding with approval of what I had written. I was able to convey the message I wanted to and took a terrifying leap that would wash away any semblance of progress we made or affection we had for each other, but rather than send it, I sealed it and put it away.
What I was looking for in writing that letter wasn’t what I found, but in this case that holds potential to be a good thing. Temporary feelings could’ve led to an entirely different outcome, and they still might, but as of today they won’t.
I wrote you a letter to give you something tangible that would allow you to feel the intimacy of my written word. I wrote you a letter to voice my agony over where we are as opposed to where we’ve been. I wrote you a letter to say goodbye.
The power of letters lies in their secrecy. Written words don’t fall on deaf ears but on inept tongues. What is written will never be repeated if not sent. Letters are the purist form of confidants. Only I will ever know precisely what in enclosed behind a seal of saliva-laced glue. Thankfully. Maybe.