I pore through the words and feel them all so deeply. They bring me back to that time and that place, where the words could not stop forming. I typed them up, read them over, tweaked and fiddled and fidgeted, trying to get them all right.
I’ll never know if they conveyed what I intended, but poring through the words, I recall how and why and when I constructed every syllable. They are the words I wish I could have said, but I could never get them out audibly. So I wrote them down. And wrote some more. Words upon words upon words.
Not a single one was a lie. And every letter, every sentence, every paragraph still holds true.
I pore over the words and fight back smiles and tears. I remember what I was thinking, feel what I was feeling, struggle to get through the words I struggled to get out. And after it all, I feel warm for all the memories, for all the care that comes through.
The years move on by, but the words always remain. Printed to the ether, imperfections in every message from an imperfect soul struggling to comprehend and imperfectly perfect being.
I never knew I could be stirred to such emotion, never knew I could generate such long-winded diatribes, never knew I’d have to force myself to stop the thoughts from pouring out. I never knew the effect those words could hold, on me or on you or on anyone else. But they are there. I can study them. I can learn from them. I can relive them. I can feel them through a past and present lens.
Poring through the words, I don’t wish I could take any of them back. Poring through the words, I don’t wish any of the experiences that inspired them were imagined. Poring through the words, I see how I ended up here. Poring through the words, I understand why the distance kept getting shorter and farther and shorter and farther again, an overused accordion that was bound to eventually break. And poring through the words, I can see that nothing is unfixable.
Poring through those words, I know that everything was meaningful. It was not a facade, not mirage, not an inconsequential time. My words meant something, and they still do. Because those times meant something, and they still do.
Poring through the words, I know more of them will come. They are beautiful and ugly, joyous and somber. They are painful and pleasurable, rational and insane. They are me, trapped in time, forever and always.
Poring through the words, I also notice yours. They’re there too. And so are you. Perhaps that is the only place we still exist, and maybe that is enough for now. Because at least I know we both truly cared, and poring through the words, I can tell that care is still there.
So poring through the words, I depart with the gift you’ve always wanted. Just my words, written down, out of sight and out of mind — left for you to pore over when you need a friend again.