My Dear Gatsby

Last night I dreamt I went inside Daisy Buchanan’s head and found a letter she had been turning over ever since she separated from Jay Gatsby.

My dear Jay,

You are gone again. The air’s razor sharp, hitting.

I didn’t get to see you this last time. I don’t know if I should even try waiting this time. I am too tired.. for this. All of this.

Can we just run away? I wish we could just run away… but not like this: when both of us are tired.

Are you tired?

I look at Pammy and I see you sometimes; she is never tired. I imagine you are floating on one of those pink clouds — Pammy transforms into you, as if — but I am nowhere to push you around.

Pammy, I was wrong, does not have your looks. She’s got your hair, and the shape of your face. And even that smile. As if she understands.

My child doesn’t have that reassurance of yours. I wonder, however, if she actually understands! How will she survive this world? She has never asked me about you. No one has. Not again. Maybe everyone understands and I don’t. But they call me names, I overhead Tom mention that a couple of times.

I feel like I am drowning in a pool of past, and I don’t even want to admit it. Sometimes I just want to throw myself into your arms, and not let this pool kill me.

But then I always pause to this thought: would you even be happy if I was to be all yours? The Daisy you know I don’t know where she’s buried. I can’t resurrect her. Would I be safe in arms of someone who isn’t even satisfied by my love? I don’t know the answer to this.

I know this: I had to pull myself out of you and your life. I had to save you from myself and me from you.

You wouldn’t have been happy with a Daisy who’s lost everything: her Pammy, Tom, and the society. I wasn’t ready to lose everything and not know where I was heading.

But look, I am here: I have lost everything, doesn’t matter I am ready or not, I have lost everything dear, and I want nothing but to pull you closer by your shirt, tell you how much I love you, and hear you repeat it too, and have you change all of this for me.

Your love,

Daisy

 

 

~ Hardik Yadav

 

  1. Fitzgerald, F. Scott. “The Great Gatsby.” (2004).

 

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2 thoughts on “My Dear Gatsby

  1. Pingback: Tenth: In Retrospection | Obscura Literary Magazine

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