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I thought I had fallen in love with you, Felix.
I thought I had struck gold, like I always think when I find a man who doesn’t attempt to open my blouse during the first date. No, I thought I had found something new, something exciting and fresh and pure. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it?
You weren’t.
We had fallen in love with the idea of each other, for me, it was your words, your poetry, how you see the world. For you, I don’t know what you fell in love with. No one knows you Felix. I didn’t.
I wish I had, but I know it’s better that I don’t get to. I know you didn’t love me anyway, I see the way you look at him, and I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you one bit, I don’t hold you accountable, not for that. I don’t blame you for when you’d lock the bathroom door and hole yourself up in there with the tape recorder, yes, I have it, and yes I left it on the bedside table. I listened to them. To all of the tapes. I suppose it makes sense now, you make a little sense now, which is crazy.
I want you to get out of this town, Felix. Get away, get away! Leave this behind and meet me somewhere in the real world, out of this contained fantasy land smack dab in the middle of Michigan of all places.
You have so much potential, though I know it hurts to hear. I was told the same thing. I heard something in those tapes, it was a light in the darkness, an extended hand waiting to pull me out of the abyss.
I heard you, Felix.
I heard the torture and the longing and the grief and the jealousy and the sorrow and even the anger, which wasn’t you but was at the same time. It wasn’t quite love, I realize now, that I felt when I first met you, but recognition. I need you to get out of here and quit chasing an idea, a dream that will never come true. Who are you, Felix Kranken?
Tell me 5/9/74
-Linda Thompson