A Letter to Poetry

It’s been so long, my friend.

I really don’t want you to feel like I’m a user. I’m not one of those friends that only calls when they need a favor. At least I didn’t think I was. Maybe I’ve seemed that way lately. It’s just that

Here’s the thing:

I thought I had everything figured out.

Here’s the other thing:

I really believed myself.

Here’s the last thing:

I didn’t.

I swear I haven’t forgotten about you. I still think we’re close and everyone else thinks so too. I mean I meet people and introduce myself like, “I’m Tara and this is my best friend”. In the back of my mind I hope you aren’t at home without anyone to hang out with. I tell myself you’re busy with other things. I always have every intention of shooting you a call or saving time for you on Saturday mornings. I’d love to share breakfast like we used to, I swear, but something always gets in the way. I’ve meant well. You know how it is.

I think my absence and thoughtlessness comes from knowing you’ll always be there. When we met around five years ago we totally clicked. It was you and me. Us and them. Simon and Garfunkel. You just got me – you know?

I always feel a little more me when I’m with you and I think I make you a little more you.

I guess I’m just asking for another chance. You’ve been there through it all. “You don’t need therapy”, you told me. “Get a notebook and suck it out with a pen”. You muddled through all the messes and replaced them before me with “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL” and “MAKE YOURSELF FEEL LIKE LIVING OR SOMETHING”. Safety pinned them to the bottom of my foot and made sure the pinching lasted a few days. It was always a sucker-punch.

Another chance, please. I promise to call every day and we can go to our favorite parking lots and stationary outlets and those busy intersections where you would give me the greatest ideas. We can try new places if you’re sick of all of that – but I don’t think you are.

One more chance, please.

You’re dear friend, Tara J.