In all sincerity, once upon a time someone wrote me:

"camp sucks. mainly because you're not here."

In all sincerity, in all that time since that letter was written I have never been able to read it. By the time I received the letter, my twelve year old self had turned her nose up at the sender and was suffering extreme guilt as a consequence - she opened it, skimmed it, and then taped the letter carefully into a journal and forgot about it, for the most part. Once every year or so, she would stumble upon it, begin to read it, and then...

WHAM throw the book against a wall and feel embarrassed and violated and offended and all sorts of irrational things, but there you have it. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen: WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM.

What bad aim.

And then, finally, at seventeen on New Years Eve with no one to kiss at midnight except my teddy bear, my friend and I found the journal found the letter and began to read. The letter read cliché smooth, like butter, like bad camp food and stupid games and disgusting beaches, which all sucked, mainly because I wasn't there.

"Love,
         ----
 (and yes, I do really mean 'love')"

I was happy to break up with him, and am still glad I did. It's not the boy in this letter that I miss, it's the idea. The simplicity. The inexplicit cleanliness of a wry letter about the more obnoxious points of camp, ended in two sweet little gems: I wish you were here, I love you. And I miss that without remembering it existed, once.

Because really? In the end it's all ridiculous. The three-day phone rule, the voracious to-contact-or-not-to-contact argument everybody's had with themselves at least once, the how far to go on the first date debate, man laws, woman laws, all of them are just excessive and wasteful, and maybe twelve year olds are not complete aliens. I think they've got something down in the form of ilikeyouyoulikemeokaylet'sgoout.

It sucks because you're not here. I do really mean love.

Nothing is more clean-cut than that.

I've spent the last part of the day with that boy who has told me what I've been missing from his lips for two years: "I always listen to you, even when I say I don't". He can't play guitar, and doesn't even look good trying.

Walking through the door, that boy + guitar at my back, my eyes fill up with the familiar composition of limbs and blonde hair and I'm screaming his name even though my throat hurts and throwing myself at him, book and all, and I bang my arm hard against the stereo but he's lifting me up and sticking his face in my neck like he needs to breathe me in and my shirt rides up and hand smarts and my nose is running and I'm afraid to smell him back and I hope we're making that boy jealous.

We've missed each other, angel boy and I. When he left I realized suddenly how sad it was and how true that very few guys know how to hug someone and I felt bereft. I feel bereft now too, even though angel boy has put me down and is still cradling me, his hands linked against my back. I look up, grinning. He looks down, grinning.

I have to go, and disentangle, I have other obligations and that boy has the same one and while we're fulfilling them he grabs my hands and wraps an arm firmly around my waist and waltzes with me, me the all-too-willing captive, me the all-too-willing captive thinking what why are you doing this I thought you didn't want to please don't let go of me how can you sing so high?

Later, running, angel boy sticks out an arm and grabs me, smelling me. "Are things still..." he jerks a head at that boy. I mine pointing a gun at my head. "I can kill him for you. Eight thousand bucks." I smile and roll my eyes. "Seven thousand, because we're tight." He crosses his fingers. "Seven thousand?" I say. "I think I can swing that. We're still hanging out Monday?"

We are. He smells me, calls me our nickname, and leaves.

I think that love is all about timing, as I kneel at the lock with that boy behind me. His foot brushes mine, and I hand the pin to him. We switch places and my nose is inches from his hair and his smell hits me, his infernal smell and I love it and miss it and wonder why I can never smell it as I inform him that he needs new deodorant. I think love is all about timing because angel boy and I can't love each other at the same time, that boy and I can never make it work because one of us is always more in control, or getting over a break up or in a relationship or not talking or not into it or too into it.

I think that love is all about timing and you could love anybody ever in the entire world, if your hours and minutes and seconds just matched up

exactly

and precisely

right

on schedule.