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Dear Mr. Oblivious

I’m just going to assume that you just don’t get it. That you really aren’t blatantly ignoring my questions but that you just don’t get it.

It’s been a few months now and I can’t seem to falter from the fact that there is something about you that I just can’t quite quit. You seemed so different from the rest when we first met. There was an instant connection, perhaps driven by long-lost lust or infatuation, but it was some type of connect that I had never felt for anyone else at all. It’s a weird thing to say because I think as women we often do that. Fall so hard for guys when we first meet them. But I actually gave you a chance. I’m not one for chances. In fact my longevity in solitude is one built by my own unwillingness to accept anything less than what I consider worthy. Thus, I sit and wait for some potential to come along.

We spent time together, minutes piling up into hours on the phone. Bodies curling into each other as eyes glaze over thriller movies on a souped up television screen.

I’ve never spent five hours with my bestie on the phone. And we’ve been friends for nearly seven years. We love each other.

But I let you into my world, not noticing the clock tick as we discussed this and that. Went tit for tat. Giggling and laughing with you over tethered connections. Thank the Lord for technology.

Am I messing things up by stating the obvious? Or should I live in wanderlust and drift off into what seems like never never land with you…? Act like everything is perfectly fine.

You’ll just never grow up. But I bet your ass will miss me when I’m gone.

You say that you have an achey-breaky heart. And thus for this, I must remain suspended in your fog-o-sphere, dangling by a thread, with little thought or knowledge for what’s to come next. I know he’s suppressing it. How he truly feels. Because he doesn’t want to get hurt. Or so he says.

Don’t make assumptions, he said. That’s how people get hurt.

And I’m bleeding blue, because all I know is the unknown and I’m walking carefully, slowly guessing, treading along like I’m playing Pick-Up Sticks with love.

It’s hard living in limbo. Not knowing, not caring. You respect him when he says he’s not ready for a relationship. But then you wonder when he will be ready to pick up the pen and actually connect the dots. What is he waiting for? Are we an “ever”? Or a “never”?

Am I just convenient to you? Some type of filler in a space that happens to be free?

Did you just blatantly ignore my question, sir? Don’t I have morals, too?

They always want what they can’t have. And if it’s not their way it’s the highway. We have no voice. The lack of respect for my feelings, the lack of respect for my time, is petrifying.

If only he’d wake up. If only he’d get it.

What do you want from me? What do you want from us?

Will there ever be an “us”? Do you ever want an “us”?

That is the question. To be or not to be? Alas, fuck Shakespeare.

He says she hurt him. And now he’s built a wall up so high that I don’t even know if I can climb over it. But if you’re waiting for me to reach the top, mister, I’m going to need some assistance. Lend me your ear, send some rope over. Help a sister out. Let me know.

Say something, baby. Say, say, say something, baby.

 

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