Singing the Broken Glass Blues

I wrote you letters. Thousands of them. I most certainly outdid Noah and I might’ve set some sort of record. I wrote at morning, noon and night, and at every spare moment in between. I bought new pens twice a week and pads of paper every time I went to the grocery store. Thousands of letters, all leading up to one thing.

I scrawled across the papers tirelessly, doing my best to bleed through the ink onto the pages. Sooner or later, I reasoned, I would get the words right. Eventually I would find a way to tell you everything you mean to me. I didn’t mind waiting. Just as long as it could someday be perfect.

One day, I did it. I wrote the perfect piece. I read it over and over and over again, sometimes in my head and other times out loud. I rolled every phrase over my teeth and tongue, tasting for a fault. There were none. I slept through the night for the first time in years.

The next morning, I plucked an old beer bottle from the shelf and carefully rolled your precious letter tightly into itself before dropping it inside. I crammed an old cork in the opening, and before I could stop myself, I stepped to the water’s edge and let go. I trusted the heavy heaps of love and devotion in my words to be the compass for your package. I knew it would find you eventually. Some time later, I made my way back home and crawled into bed without writing a single word.

That night, the bottle swept into the rapids and shattered against a rock near the bank. I broke into a sweat in the same instant, already sure of what had happened. Immediately, I leapt from my bed and took out a pen and paper.

My Love, I wrote my heart to you, but the cruel world stole my words away before you could see. It was perfect, but now it’s gone. Like you. Perhaps if you read my rough drafts, you can piece together all the things you always needed to hear.

I took my papers to the postman and he helped me to box them up and address them to you. They should be arriving a week from Tuesday.

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