Today I threw away the third letter I wrote to you.
I always write them under the moonlight,
under the impression that
it might somehow make every word sacred,
every sentence holy.
I write them with shaky hands and teary eyes.
I write them for me,
I write them for you.
But when morning comes,
I taste regret on my tongue
and each letter feels poisonous.
So I rip them apart
with the same fierceness I tore myself away from you.
Closure?
I don't know how to get it
when I'm not the only one that had been hurting.
I still hang on to the unfinished.
I only wish to let go.