I know we haven’ talked in a long, long time.
And I actually think that it’s better that way.
I really do think fondly about the serendipity of turning a corner with you behind it, how happy I would be with a high-pitched reunion. But if it were like me to go digging up the past, I wouldn’t know where to stop.
I thought about calling you. I tried to contact your sister. I thought of the congradulations and good wishes I’d give you and your future, whatever it might hold.
But sleeping dogs must lie, and the ghosts I’ve buried have rocks on top of their tombs.
I’d like to think that I’ve atoned for my sins. The ones that can be atoned for, anyways. Through celibacy. Through loyalty. Through trust and forgiveness.
But Winter sets in and I feel it all creeping back. My bed is cold with only me in it and I wonder if loving somebody means hurting somebody all over again.
This is why I would love to talk to you for hours, but I know better than to reach out to you. I don’t have time to dig up the past. I’m too busy digging the next hole.