Posted by: Ariel | February 29, 2012

“Twenty-nine Mixed Up Sentences”

Every leap day I write her a letter just before midnight. I don’t want her to remember until later, see? I don’t want her to write one back.

Once you’ve lived long enough, you start appreciating leap days. They’re precious hours that don’t seem to count against your total. Makes you feel young.

When I was young, I was desperately in love but I’d no damn clue what that meant. Then I grew up, and I learned to understand. Soon after that, I began to realize I didn’t know jack about anything. I’ve given up trying nowadays. I pretty much just hang on. Back at the beginning again.

The letter has everything I should tell her. Can’t take back what I already said, though. Letters don’t turn back the clock.

Once I tried to tell her during a leap second. I gripped her shoulders with one eye on my watch and blurted out a syllable like “MAR!” So stupid. Her name doesn’t even start with Mar.

Why do I bother? I think that if I can just reach her, just touch her on Leap Day, then we’ll be bonded outside of time. There aren’t that many leap days left, and I don’t want to waste my chances. Of course, I always do.

And everything is back to normal again. When it should be out of this world awesome. It could be, anyway. I can never give her this letter, because I’m scared. I don’t want to lose her. Shit, it’s 11:59 and none of the sentences are in order.


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