An Open Letter to My Next Lover

I love to be as close to people as possible. I guess it’s something about security.

When my last partner broke up with me (or we broke up with each other, or maybe I even broke up with him), I had to get a teddy bear—then, a gray kitten, silver tipped—because I seemed to have lost the ability to sleep alone. Eric was an encyclopedia on old country music, and I know you’re not supposed to talk about your ex in a letter like this, but I may as well be honest. I hope you’ll be an encyclopedia on something.

Also, I’ve been cultivating the ability to feel safe for awhile. Safe in myself, safe in my body. Only a few years ago, I would have told you I had finally reached my goal. I was whole—but it’s 2021 and a lot changed in the past year and a half—nothing is certain anymore. I’m sure you’ve heard. I’ve thought a lot about how people are obsessed with certainty, especially in the way we make choices. We don’t make a choice until we feel certain about it. We have to mull things over until it’s certain. “Are you certain?” people ask, which is another way of asking, “Are you sure?” When someone leaves you, or you leave them, you can ask yourself that, and each other. I don’t know if it helps you to answer the question. What about you, have you felt the need to be certain?

Would you feel the need to be certain about us?

I like to think about all the things that are uncertain—amorphous—nebulous, blobby, formless, indeterminate. Mostly those are the kind of things I like, anyway—things like clouds as they’re moving and changing, things like water, things like a body that seem solid but is really just growing, changing, sloughing, shedding. No one ever asks you if you’re certain about things like clouds, water, a body. I like to think we all once had long, aimless afternoons to spend staring up at cloud shapes, rich green grass under a blue sky. Childhood. We might banter a little about what we see, just playfully, but nobody is right. Shapes are shapes, shapes are your own.

I haven’t really let go of my ex, yet. Would you be okay with that? I always appreciate transparency. We haven’t let go because we’ve decided to leave the door open in case we find that one day, we may want to go back through the door again. I’ve always been a fan of closed doors, ruling out completely, finiteness and resolution—always as many questions answered as possible. I can pry so deep, as if there’s a center to everything. But it hasn’t always worked out for me, because thoughts tend to linger, questions tend to linger, love tends to linger. I have a memory. Like clouds in a cycle that become rain water, a lake, then cloud again—nobody asks a cloud to close a door, to stop being a cloud, to only be water. I hope you won’t ask me to be just one thing.

-Lindsay Clark

Lindsay Clark lives in Portland, Oregon after spending her formative years in the mountains of northern California. She is an accomplished songwriter and musician and an aspiring writer of creative nonfiction. She has had her musical work published on NPR, Popmatters, Oregon Arts Watch and more, and has shared the stage with notable folk artists such as Alela Diane and Michael Hurley. She is currently at work on her first collection of personal essays. You can find her at lindsaybethclark.com.