i have had a bad habit of grieving things that haven't left yet, my love, and it will be the death of me. i will give you all the dusk skies that fit inside my fists — this the dullest aching that my heart can hold. one day, it will fade into the colors of my loneliest nights. i hope that tonight, i will choke on all the longing i'm yet to feel — and maybe when you leave, no breath will be loud enough stop the time in crowded airports. no breath will haunt you in manhattan's streets. no breath will beg for you to stay. i hope you find someone to love; i hope city lights fall softly on her neck as she hums your favorite song. i hope her skin tastes like daybreaks and poems. i hope sunsets live and die for her, and that you too, live and die for her and all the cosmic flickers in her eyes. i can already feel you loving her and maybe soon, i'll be forgotten, like this letter under your bed.

maybe soon, i, too, will forget the sound of your laughter. in death, it's the last sense to ever go.

i have a bad habit of grieving things that haven't left yet, and this letter is for when you say goodbye my love. this letter is for when you finally leave.