It was a blessing and also a curse of handwritten letters that unlike email you couldn’t obsessively reread what you’d written after you’d sent it. You couldn’t attempt to un-send it. Once you’d sent it it was gone. It was an object that no longer belonged to you but belonged to your recipient to do with what he would. You tended to remember the feeling of what you’d said more than the words. You gave to object away and left yourself with the memory. That was what it was to give.

Carmen was bad at loving. She loved too hard.

I did the searching and remembering, she did the disappearing and the forgetting.

Don't talk to me. I'm tired and grumpy and I'll probably make fun of you.

But like everything else, love changed.

She got tired of herself. She got tired of not being able to say what she wanted or do what she wanted or even want what she wanted.

Can you make yourself love? Can you make yourself loved? -Lena Kaligaris