A Letter.

Dear Love,

During the crack of the dawn, I whisper a silent prayer. I keep you safe in my wishes, I keep you delighted in my fantasy, and I keep you with me in my dreams as I sleep. I may not actively do something for you, but my day constantly consists of writing, and erasing, and sending you love letters that may never reach you. It’s a trap, yes, it’s kind of a sick joke, how I keep making a fool of myself by doing these things in vain, how these silent murmurs of passion float in the air only for them to disappear after. It’s like the mist, a collection of whispered love letters meant to be sent to their lovers, hanging mid-air, without enough love, or perhaps courage to push them to its receiver, so it seemed to never have reached them, leaving them stuck and suspended in the open atmosphere.

In my dreams, you’re still in my arms. Caught in the moment of love, grounded by this feeling, enclosed in our own little world of wonders. I still see your eyes whenever I close mine, you left my lips bereft now that it’s not touching yours, and my hands have long been looking for another’s, yearning for something to cling itself onto. You left a vacancy in my soul, and I’ve been sailing from stranger to stranger trying to fill the void, but to no avail.

It's a miracle how I still have a functioning heart after you took mine with you when you left. But it’s my fault I handed it to you wholeheartedly, literally, even when I knew you were going to crush it with your own hands. That’s love, right? Knowing it would hurt, a thousand times more than it would feel good, yet we’d still dive anyway because that’s the only thing we know how to do. With that, there’s one thing I can promise to the universe: I’d take one lovely day with you, even if it meant being in pain for a thousand after.

“Falling in love is so short, forgetting is so long.”