Los Angeles, October, 1999

Dear Ed,

So I return to you with words once again.

Oh, words. I have almost forgotten about them, being so long since I last touched a pen, and felt a stationery resting quietly on my lap, breathing slowly like my cigarette-plagued lungs, my tired body.

I write to you once again because I need to. You may disregard my words, maybe toss this very letter in a garbage can or, if you have remained conscientious, in a recycle bin somewhere.

Yes, please do that. For me.

Recycle my words for they must have developed a life of their own by now, and should remain like that for eternity, carved in impressions and memories of what we once were, of what we once believed in.

Life here in the big city is different.

Nothing like what it used to be back home, when we used to role play our fantasies and dreams during intense chocolate, sugar-driven afternoons in front of a video game, or a VCR with an old class Z movie strangely glowing from the narrow TV screen of your living room.

No Ed, life is nothing like that here.

I know you blame me for having left, for having pursued a different life, away from what we once planned, away from our childhood promises. You might even think it is a sin to do what I did, despising something so important as ourselves, as our golden relationship.

But it's too late now. I know.

Don't get me wrong, my dear, my beloved Ed. I've always loved you. I've always loved you so deeply, so intensely, much more than you will ever be able to fathom or believe.

But it matters not. No longer.

I hear from my mother, who insists in reminding me of you, like I needed anyone to do that for me, that you are now married, living in a house in the suburbs. I had to gather a lot of strength to make this letter happen. Collecting your new address, inquiring about your whereabouts while pretending I was someone else, checking phone books because I didn't want anyone to know that I was, indeed, trying to reach you.

It's all silly, and selfish, I know.

But please, call it self-protection, call it something other than selfishness. I beg you. I've had my share of bad lessons here, and I didn't want you to judge me like everybody else did. Not you. Especially not you.

I just wanted to say I love you. I truly do, with all my heart and soul, with every single drop of blood left in my body. I truly love you, my special friend, my only true lover, the one who treated me so kindly and respectfully, so gently and friendly, the first man who made me feel like a woman, the first man who made me discover the pleasures of love, the first and only man I have lost my heart to.

I don't want you to think about this letter though. Please don't. Pretend I never sent it. Pretend I never wrote it. Pretend this piece of paper has never reached your hands, and I never really said what I've just said.

I am writing because I wanted you to know how I feel. But I wouldn't like you to spend any minute, any second rationalizing about this. There is such a huge difference between acknowledging and interpreting. We both know that very well.

I have drunk much more than I should tonight. I needed it. I didn't go to work tonight. I couldn't. Working tonight would be too much to endure, too difficult to bear, too huge a burden to carry. Not tonight. This night is going to be our night, when I will dream of the chances I've missed, and the love I once had and have now lost.

Many, many men have visited my bed, Ed.

Don't be hurt.

Don't be sorry either.

I've chosen this life. It was my decision to make. I'm not begging for either compassion or understanding. I'm only asking for someone to hear me out, I'm asking for someone to listen to my words, to my personal prayers, to my confession, like a priest, like a friend, like a lover without pay.

You were my only true lover, Ed. The only one I can remember and miss, the only one I still have the nerve to approach, talk, and open my heart to.

I don't want you to write back to me though. Please don't. I've left my return address blank on the envelope you're holding. That's the way it should be. I guess I would be embarrassed to receive a letter from you.

It sounds foolish to say such a thing because it sounds I am ashamed of myself, of what I have done. I am not. But this letter is not the moment, not the medium to discuss this. I just wanted you to know that I still think of you, Ed. I still love you with deep-rooted feelings, even though I will probably never see you again, never touch your face in the dark, never hear your voice or laughter.

But it makes me feel good to spend the night home, hiding away from the real world, encroached in my bedroom, and writing these words to you.

My confessions are my dreams, dear Ed.

Sleep well.

Don't think of me.


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