Charlie, I shouldn't be telling you this,
and if I'm hurting you, I'm sorry, but
Charlie, he makes me crazy sometimes.
I'm going around in circles.
Away from him and back to him again.
I think I might come back home
because I can't take much more of this.
Charlie, I'm sorry for dumping on you
but you lived with me, you know me,
why do I like him when he's smug
and half-jealous and half-ashamed of me
when he's being as much a jerk as you ever were?
Charlie, god Charlie, if I'm hurting you I'm sorry, but
even when he insults me, when he ignores me
when we're screaming at each other, I still like him.
And it's nice, it's permanent, and fine
and then we get distracted,
someone comes along offering more than just fine
and I'm going around in circles,
I think I might come back home.
Except halfway across the Atlantic my heart would probably shrivel up.
If I'm hurting you, I'm sorry, but
Charlie you told me so.
And sometimes when he's at his most infuriating
I suddenly remember how he held me when I needed him,
when I was afraid, and he was afraid too
(You wouldn't believe the stuff that happens here, Charlie.)
and I want to put my arms around him, hold him
and fill the hollows of his cheeks with kisses.
Letter to Charlie
1998 by p q laertes pqlaertes yahoo com The Fake Book