Dear Juliet

Dear Juliet,

You can’t begin to imagine how foolish I feel sitting here, writing you this letter. This isn’t your house, you weren’t real. Your story isn’t one of love, why do people flock here to see this, to see a fake balcony, to see…you. And there they go, fondling your breast because it’s supposed to be good luck, like you’re an objectified Buddha or something. I mean, I laugh at these people. Everyone is acting out scenes on the balcony asking, “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” thinking it means: “Where is Romeo?” when it really means, “Why are you Romeo?” They’re tracing the graffiti on the walls as if you yourself put it there, talking about the tragedy that was your love with Romeo. Only, it wasn’t love. Overlooking the fact that you were a mere teenager (barely) and Romeo was too old for you, desperation isn’t love. Oh, but don’t get me wrong dear Juliet, I don’t think that you were the desperate one, I think it was he, Romeo. You see, there is one thing that I understand, one way in which you and I have been so strikingly familiar and that is this: you weren’t his first choice and I know all too well how that feels.

Romeo was looking for Rosaline when he stumbled upon you. You just happened to be in the right place at exactly the right time and for a moment, Romeo forgot why he was at the party in the first place. He supposedly became enamored by you, but the truth is you were a substitute person (as Claire* would say). Sadly, you did fall in love with him, and you knew it the moment you met. I get it, Juliet, I get why you would return his act of irrationality with your own act of love. Isn’t that what gets us, Juliet? I know it’s what always gets me. It isn’t easy being a substitute person even when you know that is exactly who you are. Granted, you didn’t know, you were fooled; poor Juliet, tricked into believing in a love that wasn’t real. But I know, I am fully aware of my role as a substitute and yet I am constantly surprised with each failed attempt that this time wasn’t any different from the last.

Oh, Juliet, if only you could understand. If only you could hear me or feel what I feel. Your death would be a result of true loneliness and heartbreak. I wish I knew or could understand why, why I am destined to a life wandering, carrying all this love in my heart and having no one to give it to, to share it with, to receive it. To receive it…I think that is what love is really about, right; being open to receive love from another. All the former loves (or potential loves) in my life have been able to receive love from another, but that other was never me. I was a fill in until she came along. I made it possible for them, I made them ready for her: for the Laurens and the Patties, and the Brittanies and the Sarahs and whoever came just after me. I showed them love so that they would be able to accept it, to receive it but why, Juliet, why couldn’t they accept it from me?

I am so tired of not being enough to another person. I am tired of being an object, them fondling me as tourists here fondle you today. They laugh and see nothing wrong with it and like you I let them. The difference is that I have a choice and each time I make the same decision; I decide that they will change, that they will desire more than my body, that they will see the love that I have and that they will share it with me. But Juliet, at the end of the day, those who fondle you will go home and laugh and forget and you will not care and those who fondle me will laugh and forget and I will be left with the heartache and the tears and the insecurity and the anger and the hate and the dream for a day when it will change.

I wish I knew how to cope with the lost love and the ache in my soul. I yearn for stability, the kind that comes with knowing there is another person waiting for you, wanting to be with you, wanting to love you…to love me. I came here to Verona and I came here to you to find the strength within me to find a love that is real. I came here to find the strength to be honest with myself. I fall madly every time and when it ends I too am left with a dagger in my heart and I am left healing myself until the next Romeo appears and I fall all over again. I can’t take it anymore, Juliet, I can’t stand it! Please tell me! Am I to give up hope? Am I to forget? Am I to stop trying? Tell me, Juliet, I need to know! You didn’t have to feel the pain, but I live with it every day. I hide it, I hide the tears, I hide the sadness, and I tell everyone that love is irrelevant and inconsequential, but I need it and I am tired of giving love that isn’t received and not having an opportunity to receive love myself.

I am just so sad, Juliet, so utterly heartbroken, standing on the edge having all but given up and ready to jump. Is it truly too much to ask to want to be someone who makes another person’s life better? To want to be wanted, loved, held, kissed? To give those things back and have the other person not want to receive that from anyone other than me? Is it too much to not want to be lonely or worse, to not want to be with someone and still feel completely alone?

Now I sit here in beautiful Verona, surrounded by people, hiding and fighting back the tears. I want so badly to fall apart, but I won’t. I’ll wipe the tears away, I’ll smile at passersby, I’ll put my pen and journal back in my bag, and I’ll have a glass of wine before I go back to Rome. I won’t fall apart there either, Juliet, in fact, I won’t fall apart anywhere because I’m afraid that if I do, I won’t recover the pieces this time and I’ll never be whole again. Oh, Juliet, if you can hear me, if you can see me, if you know…please, please tell me what to do. Please tell me how to protect my heart until someone gentle enough is ready to hold it. Please, Juliet, I need you… 

Wandering Italy with love in my heart,

Chivon