You Handed Me Your Heart On A Page Of Notebook Paper


I heard from you. For the first time in ages.

And when I did, I stopped everything. I dropped my keys. I set my purse on the table. I fell into the couch and read the letter from you. Then read it again, soaking every word into my skin, my brain, my cells, which, at this moment, were buzzing with anticipation.

There was a rush of emotion, of feeling, of dizziness as I felt your every word fill my mind with the sound of your voice. A voice I haven’t heard in months, maybe even years.

It was still you.

You with the rambling thoughts broken into choppy sentences. You, with correct grammar, trying so hard to sound professional, so distant, when we both knew better. You, who has always conveyed emotion slowly, peeling back the hard exterior surface to slowly let me in.

It was you, with the same stubbornness, the same way of thinking.
You telling me, pen on paper, that I had mattered to you.

And that you still thought of me.

I wasn’t sure how to feel. I read the letter again, slowly this time, as if to discover some hidden meaning behind your words, as if maybe reading it a third, a fourth time, would give me some sense of who you were now, and if you had changed.

It’s strange how you can hear someone’s voice in your head when you read their words. It’s as if they’ve time traveled back to you, and are standing in your living room, reciting their heartfelt sentiments, their every syllable sparking something inside you that you’d long forgotten.

It’s like reopening this lock on your chest, letting in air you didn’t know you were gasping for. It’s like suddenly realizing you’re struggling to breathe and feeling this new oxygen like a jolt of electricity, running through the cells in your spine.

Today I heard from you. For the first time in ages.
And I wasn’t expecting it.

Wasn’t expecting you, or the way I’m feeling, or how life shifts and brings people apart and together at the strangest of times.

I don’t know what to do, so I think I’ll do what I’ve always done.
I’ll pick up a pen and I’ll pour out my heart to you.

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Marisa is a writer, poet, & editor. She is the author of Somewhere On A Highway, a poetry collection on self-discovery, growth, love, loss and the challenges of becoming.

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