I thought about writing a letter tonight.
But I am admittedly a little afraid to actually know her.
It has honestly been a minute since I have tortured someone with my rambling correspondence; I feel out of practice. Out of touch with more gentle thoughts; out of time to the rhythm of all these 517 hearts.
I find myself terrified of letters. Probably because it’s only been a little over a month now. And I haven’t yet found the courage to read the last one I received. The one that came at me hard on that awful, and beautiful, Wayne’s City night.
But it’s still right there.
That letter is still tucked away, unopened, inside a locked typewriter case. The vintage companion that has traveled with me across the reckless expanses of too many different states. The graffitied case housing that pugnacious meme killing machine. The one which brought me some notoriety.
And a whole hell of a lot of hurt.
We’ve been together for over a quarter of a million words now—my longest successful relationship. It knows all of my secrets; I understand all of its mechanics. And can actually fix things when they go wrong. Usually some injury sustained amidst the ravings of yet another literary temper tantrum.
And I considered tapping into that intimacy to write her a letter tonight.
But the tone and talk of that potential correspondence remains undefined. Probably because she makes me nervous. And that isn’t a position in which I often find myself.
I live the majority of my life a split second away from disaster. Spend my nights in an inhospitable environment. A place where rigid alloys threaten more malleable bone; a place where big machines lurch unpredictably to break the bounds of physics. And where hungry, bladed engines spool and whine on the regular.
It is not a place for those possessing a nervous disposition. Because the instant those big tin monsters know you are afraid of them, well, some really bad shit is gonna happen.
I’ve seen it a million times. So I understand, better than most, what it is to dance that line. The line between completing another shift safely and ending up just a meat crayon smear, getting hosed off the tarmac.
What I *don’t* understand is, if I were to break out those keys and write a letter, what kind would it be?
She already knows the story that brought me up to this godforsaken Mitten slapped onto the map between all the water. I previously shared clippings from the local rag detailing that insanity. Tucked them safely inside a little envelope holding big words. And then slid it all across the bar between us.
Because I felt she would maybe benefit from that context.
Maybe I should throw caution to the wind and jump right into the forewordplay. Demonstrate out loud, and on the page, that I am so very much more than all the injuries and injustices committed against me. Craft and tease out those ridiculous sentences exposing the playful fox chasing his roguish tale(s).
Because I like it when she smiles.
Maybe I should just recklessly document my demons. Neatly catalog my sins for her easier consumption. Bare my soul before there’s even a whimper of bared skin.
Admittedly, I understand that she has battled demons of her own. And I am fucking proud of her for achieving that hard won clarity. Survivors have a way of sniffing each other out. So all the hurt she carries behind those walls of outward resillancancy was plainly evident to me. Even on that very first night.
But I did not press the point.
I pressed instead into another pint.
It’s just too soon for a mutual dumping of traumas. That emotional game of “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, and we’ll see whose is worse.” So it’s better the damage remains behind more modest wrappings.
At least for the time being.
Somehow, just knowing that she is out in the world—and inside the same zip code—is enough. And that proximity whispers for me to lean only towards the gentle.
Maybe it will help to lean into that next pint; maybe there remains that magical combination of words to help me lean against better possibilities.
The only way to know for certain is to take a deep breath. Collect scattered thoughts from the cloying grip of a broken MLK view. Roll new Old Town paper into a Westside machine.
And then write that fucking letter.
Even if it ends up being just an echo inside another empty Michigan bottle…
