All The Letters I Wrote

Slightly drunk, thinking about her all the time. Revisiting the times, between the screens, that we spent together.

All the things she trusted me with and all of the excitement I had just to come home to her. The reverence I had for her creativity, her loveliness, her moodiness, her genius - Replaced by a reverence I have for God. She's moved on, she doesn't care. I'm not her lover anymore - Barely there, a memory, seemingly, of when I was just a kid. There for her when she was low.

The kind of acquaintance meant to be thrown away. She was everything to me, and I worshipped her. I still worship her, though I don't know how to anymore. And maybe that's a step towards forgetting.

Realizing I don't know why maybe is the way I find how not to. A decade has passed waiting for us to reconnect, but maybe then we weren't connected. A fine line between a reality where she was and the illusion, the attitude, of a relationship alluded to by the internet; a wondrous thing.

I've been dreaming for years. The kind of dreams that you despise waking up from. And I'm sobering from this feigned familiarity.

Letting go of all the letters I wrote - Aching, craving, like how i may not thirst but desire a drink of water so discrete, so sweet, and just because of how it feels. I know her like how i know absolutely nothing but have an inkling of it; soft static in my ears is how her name sounds in my head. How I never used to call her by her name but knew of it.

All the memories of her I know better than the memories of my own life, and sometimes it doesn't feel like a choice. And that comforts me.

If she would just talk to me - Say "Hello", or everything in the world...I could die.