Letters

Ode to our death

Dear Lover,

It’s been forty days today since I last saw you. It hasn’t been 40 seconds since then when I haven’t thought of you. I now understand the term ‘enveloping’. I stopped holding on to your shirt, I now hold on to my heartache, lest it might spill on my face. I stopped looking out at the street that celebrated your feet walking on them. I stopped reading your letters over and over, feeling like each alphabet is being carved on my flesh with a needlepoint knife. My mind has rehearsed them too hard to learn another language. I look for snowfall to feel what your body calls home, I only end up touching the cold inside my heart. I have moved my fingertips for hours over your name written in a language I chose to write your name first in. It feels like hot wax pouring down my throat when I swallow the words you spit out of hatred, I have my own outlet; my tears feel warmer than our sweating bodies. I now look at every human through you, and I can never see enough because instead of one, you have two hearts, I am the hollow shell. I am writing a letter that will never reach you but will never die young like we did. I will keep this in my dullest drawer lest the stink of dried blood of the letters evokes more death. Lover, I carry you with me in every step I took in these forty days. I look at the empty air next to me, and pretend your fingers touching my arms a little, subtle but longing. I have spoken to your empty shadow for days now, and I have been drained relentlessly to feed your impression to keep the pretence going. Lover, we loved like a firecracker and burnt down too fast. We missed to fail to memorize our love and now it rises like a phoenix in our hearts!

It’s been forty days today, and I write my fortieth letter today; my ink reeks of death, my paper is bloodied, my hands shiver but our orphaned love still goes to work. Breaks its heart the whole day, bleeds like a soldier while resting, and runs miles in the emptiness, only to come back to a hollow home.

Dear lover, our broken nest agonizes most because the fear is dead. What more do we lose when our letters lost each other’s address? Lover, we have years to die, but our love has eternity to live. Lover, our letters are going into the woods and there’s no firefly to guide them home. Lover, let’s light ourselves on fire and run back to each other before the storm forces our ashes apart.

 

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