I wrote to you last week.
All pathetic and full of angsty yearning.
Pouring my feelings for you onto the page; bleeding inky tears my eyes were and still are too stubborn to cry.
I told you that I miss you.
That just like a plague, the thought of you relentlessly pushes it's way into my days.
Into my head.


I know when you read my words you felt triumphant.
Powerful even.
Like my affinity to write about you only proves my weaknesses.
That my failure to get over you proves just how hard I fell for you.


You wrote to me last week.
A love letter?
No.
There was a time when I would have answered that question with my eyes. A hopeful glance, wet and shiny with the tinge of unrequited love.
But no. Your words bled manipulative deceit across the screen.
Page? No.
You've never been that eloquent.
That blatantly romantic.
Except when you were..
For me.
One of the things I loved about the idea of you.


I can still feel the butterflies fluttering furiously in my stomach, heart racing as I read those words for the first time "I love you"
But how depressing that I read them.
I didn't hear your sweet voice whisper them into my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.
I read them on a harshly bright screen.
A bright screen that assaulted the stark darkness surrounding me.
Safely tucked away beneath a pile of blankets.
Alone.
So in love.
And so alone.


My days consisted of daydreaming of the life we would have together.
The perfect life.
One that I desperately and furiously convinced myself was inevitable.
So close to tangible that if I reached high enough or hoped hard enough for, I could feel my fingertips brush the curtails of that exquisite illusion. Because my love, all that we ever had was a beautifully perfect, wonderfully magical idea.
Full of enchantment and potential.
It hurts even now to think about what we lost.
But how can you lose something that you never had?
I can't understand it.
We were a shade of grey flickering insubstantially next to the kaleidoscope of colours that is reality.


I wish I had a letter from you.
Something I could hold next to my physical being.
Something that can't get lost within the trenches of cyber space.
Wind maybe, but baby I would clutch it too close to me, it would never, could never, fly away.
I want something to hold against my heart. To be able to trace my fingertips across the indentations of your pen.
I'm jealous of that pen.
Of it getting the chance to be grasped within the comforting softness of your hand.
For taking the place of my hand.


I want something to prove that I had you.