I write to the poems we said and liked. The moments we shared and cherished. The nights and days, the constant staying in-touch.

This I write to the wait, anticipation, horror of not finding you again.

This I write to the pain of distances.

I am writing to the places we couldn’t visit, words we couldn’t utter ever. There is no tomorrow for us because we wasted while we had it. We had everything but perhaps we never found it worth fighting for.

In the name of lies and fooling. This I write not to the barren years but to the long moments between each minute. To the burden of the reality, to the burden of our fantasies.

I write to put a full stop. I write to mark “The End” which I kept hoping won’t come. I write to restart.