journal · letter · new years resolution · prose


My Dear,

I hesitate on the thoughts taking shape within me – to voice them is to reiterate my failure. But my heart is closing in upon itself and it is clamoring to be heard. Still, the words remain intangible, elusive. And I can feel those same sensations creeping in upon me once more. My shame and my remorse, unnoticed in my smallness. The stifling ache of a broken tongue for release. For a relief from the burden of your inevitable absence, where we lay enrobed in both indifference and inquietude alike. But I can no longer bow in acquiescence to the quiet. Cannot continue to shoulder the silence that still blooms inside the spaces you left behind. I must capture these words that I tremble to say and hope that you can hear them. Because love is just a word, without a voice behind it. Because I have remembered – and I must remind you –  that all which can be destroyed by truth or time, should be. But they have not destroyed us, yet. And they do not have to.




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