letter · new years resolution

giving up

My Dear,

I grow so weary. My insides crave sleep and the rest of me only continues to function because I can’t bear the thought of you knowing that I am no longer alive. I loathe and long for the silence, ache to be alone in companionship, cannot bear the thought or action of sleeping alone, but sleep alone and dream alone, awaken alone — awake and alone and knowing that all I can ever aspire to hope for are a few bright moments in a life largely built of solitude. And so I must speak, must tell you: I am giving up. Have given up on love.

 

Yours,

letter · new years resolution

winter snow

X,

Can you feel my heavy heart? It’s waiting for a word and longing to be healed. For there’s an ache inside that’s clearing out both soul and mind. Like the winter snow, falling to the ground and swept away by the wind, I’m swept away by you. Clean of emotion, feeling so blue. A clear summer blue that makes the sun ask questions. It wonders why it’s in the sky, like I wonder why I stay with you. So kisses to your heart, and tears in my eyes. Because I can’t be a part of your life. I will never fit in quite right.

 

Yours,

letter · new years resolution

worth

X,

You were right, I’ve got nothing to lose now. Nothing that I’d do anything to try and save. It’s kind of pathetic, really. And I thought, maybe I should start living life that way — like I’ve got nothing to lose. Maybe people will hate me, maybe they will think that I’m crazy, but maybe they will love me, as well. Maybe I will gain something worth doing anything to try and save. Worth losing. Or perhaps I won’t. But I can never know it until try.

 

Yours,

letter · new years resolution

forget

My Dear,

Can you taste my tears in the echoes of our time? I’m closing the curtains now, on all my thoughts of you. What must be done to move beyond you. That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt me. For how I have known you — for all the ways which you have seen me, have also known me. To accept that what was can be nothing other than what it is: the sorrow of inearthing your hope. Oh what a fine shrine I have built for you, here. It will be nearly impossible to forget you.

 

Yours,