In A Tunnel Under The Mountain

Dear K,

In my dreams she still comes to me. I'm as in love with her as I ever was. As I ever will be I suspect. Love like this doesn't fade, the edges just get softer like sea glass, tossed and tumbled by the waves until a bottle of Mountain Dew becomes an emerald. She told me in the dream that she was getting married and I've been burning with jealous rage all day. It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream. I can't stand it. I want her to come to me. I want to go to her. I want to say I'm sorry until my throat cracks and I choke on blood and I'll still scream to God I'm sorry. I miss her. I'm in love with a ghost, only she's out there.

I have to remind myself every day that I ended it. I was the one who looked around at it and said I'd had enough. I couldn't be that unhappy anymore. I couldn't let her push me around and push my friends away and push my sisters away, and I want children. I want to have beautiful little babies that stare up at me with wonder, and I want to raise them out in the country where you can't tell the fireflies from the stars in the midnight skies. I want that. But I want her. I want her to the point of tears. Some days if I breathe in too sharply I can feel the like of broken glass where my heart used to be. Some days it is hard to stop crying. I've learned how to cry on the inside and the tears just run down my insides and pool in my feet. I miss her. I miss the smell of her hair, her breath, her eyes, her voice, I miss her hands and feet and lungs and knees and hips and stomach and shoulders and breasts and teeth and tongue and nose and neck and ass and calves and thighs and forearms and elbows and scapula and liver and intestines and every other part therein.

I'm drowning in a ruined love.

Tell me there is air worth breathing,

K