i found this tonight while looking at old emails, from a boy a few years ago.

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no, i dont ever want to talk to you again. you feel the same.

i dont hate you. i never have. my motives were and always have been lustful. for this i apologize. everything last semester was a veneer. i apologize for this, too. i was never honest. what is pathetic about me is that i could not overcome my lust for you. i fell in love with your face the first time i saw you. i learned your name and when i saw your name on your photographs in the paradox i plotted things. when i emailed you with bland compliments on your art i was on acid. that is lustful. i woke up the next morning and realized what i had done. that is not like me: i have never pursued anyone. you should have never responded. you should have been suspicious. you probably were. i am more complicated than you are. this is honest. your life needs irony, and you have none at all. do you understand?

i should have been honest with you. i accused you of dishonesty. i was the one in error.
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i probably don't need to say that this was not the last communication with this person; we dated for another year. i'm glad i've been with someone who can express their seething disgust so eloquently. strangely, our relationship became the healthiest and most genuine i've had. because neither of us expected to be together for longer than the moment and we had no delusions of a future together, we were rarely manipulative, we enjoyed each other. i ended up leaving him for someone else, which i sometimes regret. he taught me a lot about music; 2 cds i've recently acquired were ones i grew to love in his apartment, while he paced and read. he is one of the top 5 smartest people i've met. i think he will do something amazing with his life. but i never believed he was more complicated than me, he just never cared to look beneath my surface.

donna says that i am good for finding interesting things to show her, like new art and music and ideas. i am always looking around for things and telling her about them. i miss him because he was like that for me, squared. his contributions to my life have enriched me, like a tapestry.

it's funny how little i talk sometimes. we had a friend over tonight and i was quiet. it seemed futile to tell my stories, but if you don't tell them no one ever knows you. he was admiring some blank books we bought at saturday market. there was one tiny one that i never knew what to do with, so i told him he could have it if he had an interesting use for it. he told me he would write me a love letter in it and return it to me, so i said he could have it, but i guess it's only temporary.