The Unsent Letter
By Chad Denton
As I write this I am thinking of you reading this and being disgusted enough to never call me again, to never even think about me except as an unpleasantly eccentric footnote in your biography. Oh, you are compassionate and open-minded and all those things the sort of twentysomething who cries (just a little) when he listens to Bob Dylan’s Masters of War, but we live in a time and a place where these things are not always understood, even by compassionate, open-minded men.
I don’t want to think like that. Instead I choose to imagine you reading the letter again and again, the words infecting you with a sleepless night as thoughts you never would have had if my letter had not penetrated your skin like a wasp’s stinger. I want to think that by writing this I transcend the repulsive barriers of gender and sexuality, that love triumphs in the way that it does in the most stupidly sincere of romance novels and soap operas. I see it now, as I write this, you clutching the letter in one hand, you dialing my number with the other. Then we will have so much to discuss, all to the point of thick tears and wet, sloppy “I love you”s.
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