I wrote you a letter on the back of a napkin, but it will never grace your touch. My feelings are so indistinguishable, and nothing should be written in ink only to be crossed out soon after. This was a habit of yours, and everything has been written in red because of it.

Memories of us are collecting dust in a shoebox beneath my bed that I won't dare open until my heart is for another. Because although one day, these things won't cut me open or sting, I'm still skipping over the third step leading up to my front door now.

Your love for me was fleeting, and that is all right. I do well on my own, but you always wondered why I was scared of calling you mine. Darling, this is what I feared.

-k.w//written in red