I hid a love note in the third drawer of my desk drawer

Right next to the orange candy jar of condoms

It lies there, dead.

It waits for a pair of bright eyes to read it,
Despite the fact that its pencil words have long since worn away.

The letter isn’t meant for you, my dear.
It was meant for a previous lover…

Lover.
Do people even use that word anymore?
It’s not as if I ever slept with this boy…
It’s not as if I loved the boy for whom the letter was intended.

I liked him, yes.
He was nice-
And polite.

He had dull brown eyes,
And an out-of-tune musical hum,
He went to an Ivy League school and liked plants.

And yet, he was forgettable.

The letter was written in an attempt to make him unforgettable-
To show him that he meant something-
That his words made me smile.

The letter was written in an attempt to erase the boredom that I felt with him.

Three afternoons we’d spent together,
Linked arms and assumptions.

We were running out of things to talk about
Words to say
Kisses to give and take

It was truly a blessing that we parted quickly before I could give him that letter.

He didn’t deserve it-not from me, anyway.
I’m sure he will receive a very similar letter from another person…someday

A letter that will be filled with meaning and desire, rather then just empty, worn words.

I don’t know why I still keep the letter, locked away in that creaky, squeaky drawer.
It’s not like it’s a literary phenomenon…
In fact, I’m pretty sure it sucks.

That ripped up piece of paper stores an endless trail of sweet nothings that literally meant…

…nothing.

So why do I keep that letter to that boy hidden away, when I have drawers filled with your borrowed large sweaters and flannels?

Why do I keep those words of empty love when I have a mind and heart so full of lovely songs and speeches for you?

Maybe it’s just that I like to wallow in my regrets
Or maybe I like to remind myself of how much better the present is
Then the past.