The Love Letter
I wish I was her, just as much as you long to be him.
I try not to read it, but the temptation is often too great when I see it next to me on the telephone table,
I knew one day it would finally be there
And that it would say everything I ever wanted to hear…
But I still find it strange that you never wrote my name on it
To be her in your eyes, I would have to be so much more than I am. As much as the fantasist in me wants your tale as my existence; even if I had enough wonderful inside me to be half the woman she was, I just coudn’t fight to fix that piece of me…
Because, oh I’m so sorry, it’s because
I know that it will never make me happy,
There is every reason why it should; it completes most, but most I am not. Why does it destroy me with such ferocity? I can only guess that it is a poison to my destiny…
I started at the theatre when I knew they’d based the new play on an adaptation, and I got the part. But soon the strain became obvious to the cast and just like every time, the illness intensified until I was once again, broken. They were really understanding about it all, I think having old family ties helped of course. After being discharged from hospital, they let me come back in a lesser capacity. I became the understudy to a beautiful French girl. Do you remember?
It’s been running in the west end for many years now, and for a long time, I was her. Saturday matinée every week; I was Celeste and you were my hero, until the final scene where I became yours. I was yours.
Never destined for the dream,
But still, every Saturday I can’t resist. I go to the telephone table, I pick up the note with my name on it, snuggle into my favourite chair and as slowly as I can, I read every line; and I am Celeste again.
For so many years I couldn’t understand why this longing didn’t last past the weekend, but that was before I knew me.
I’m sorry and I do…
I love you