Friday, May 15, 2009

Letter # 22

My favorite poems were the Petrarchan sonnets about unrequited love. I thought they were filled with beauty and passion that I could relate to. I would fall in love with Thomas Wyatt after reading any of his poems. Then I sit and wonder how any woman could deny his kind words. I wished he had written to me. I would understand, I would care and I would love him back. I met my Thomas at the Lincoln center library one rainy day. I walked around in circles, because I couldn’t find the entrance. Finally I reached the door. I stumbled in dripping wet fumbling with my bags and umbrella. Unaware of anyone else I walked around the library flipping through plays dreading going back out in the rain. By the time I left the rain had stopped. I walked quickly to the street and then I heard your voice behind me. Thinking you were the ordinary catcaller I sped up to get away from you, but your kind words slowed me down. You walked with me to the street and told me how you saw me come in, but couldn’t speak to me because it was against library policy for the employees to speak to the visitors. You called me beautiful and said I stopped you in your tracks and the whole time I thought I looked a mess. I waited for you to say something stupid that would make me want to leave, but you said all the things that made me stay. I considered going with my usual route and telling you about my made-up boyfriend, but since you were honest with me I couldn’t lie to you. I took your number and stored it in my phone. The truth is the whole time that I spent talking to you I wished you were someone else. I know its horrible to say, but I wished you were someone else but I still took your number to be nice or to show you that I appreciate all the things you said. I realize that there is nothing beautiful about denying someone’s proposal of love. You made my whole day better, but I still wish you were someone else. Someone that I have feelings for, someone that I’m not even sure has feelings for me, but I wished you were him. I wonder if the women Thomas Wyatt wrote to had already given their hearts to someone that didn’t deserve them or maybe they just weren’t deserving of his heart as I am not deserving of yours. I don’t know if you will ever read this, I don’t know if I will ever see you again. But I wanted to write this letter as an apology. I’m sorry Thomas.