©I Need A New Opera — from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)

©I Need A New Opera — from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It was a horrible moment when I couldn’t breathe because I was crying so damn hard, couldn’t breathe because I heard something that broke my heart. It was one of those inexpressible moments when I wished I could scream, but I couldn’t because there were others in the house who would be awakened. It was one of those frightening moments when I could feel something was wrong and I knew it was coming and it was going to hurt when it finally hit me, but all I could do was stand there — paralyzed.

It’s never been part of my character to hang onto anyone too tightly or too long; I’ve been the one to walk away. So, I cannot guess why everything suddenly stopped, why you wanted me to feel it was necessary for you to stop all communication, to push me away, to make me wonder why you wanted me to feel like gum on the bottom of your shoe, (laughing—like some gumshoe covertly searching crowds for your voice). You are the one who said Go ahead; see if you can find me.

Not for validation would I love to hear that baritone utterance, but for the slightest hint of reassurance you still exist in spite of all lack of those calls you used to make when you couldn’t sleep, those texts when you were thinking of me, and especially those “pocket calls” your cell made when subconsciously your mind wanted me.

Not for your a dull voice when we did speak a few times, a voice that offered excuses like I’m tired, I’m too busy, I don’t feel well, I have to go that would leave me unknowing how I should end the conversation and wondering what the hell just happened, but for a smile with a hint of interest and desire to share the way we used to share almost everything.

The icy crunch beneath your feet is your frosty heart; it has lost all warmth when it interfaces with mine… as though it’s forced into an unwanted connection. I have never been the type of person who is afraid to feel too deeply, to say too much, to let people know how much they mean to me. Knowing that expressing to you how special you were I made myself vulnerable, I was never afraid or ashamed of what I did or how I did it. I found something breathtakingly beautiful in those moments of honest sharing when the brick walls of soul protection were stripped away. I learned to draw people out by asking questions and never did anyone say to me, besides you, that I ask too many questions. Never did anyone ever tell me to shut up when I opened myself up boldly in love.

I am not some EBE* that will invade your space. I’m a human who desires to know you want me around…or not. I’m getting older and this being invisible to you and your friends is getting old. I never learned that ability to turn love off with a blink of the eyes, to stop all forms of communication, the trick of making someone invisible, to convert a lover to a friend, to someone who no longer in exists. You gave up someone who you tell others was nothing more than a friend; I lost someone I love.

Your betrayal stabbed me; grief engulfed my heart; the flames of sorrow charred my hope. I asked you if the fat lady had farted or had sung. You chuckled and said neither, she’s just tired. Does anyone ever get tired of picking up after you and your deceit, because I cannot see you picking up after yourself, after you have crushed someone like the way autumn leaves or puddles of thin ice are crushed beneath your feet. Our story never had an ending; you just stopped writing it. Well, without your loving words, I cannot finish the painting of us. The fat lady didn’t fart and she didn’t stop singing on her own. You killed her mid-aria and the opera stopped.

I’ll recover from the heartbreaking sadness of your walking out without a word of explanation, but never from your loss.

a new opera

*EBE: extraterrestrial biological entity

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