I read your letter, or attempted would term it better, it was spoken in a tongue too sharp to make out.
But from what I gathered, to shape sense of the matter, this cryptic labyrinth of blows was written solely to bleed me out.
As if I never understood you before.
You repeated yourself so many times, alternating between maudlin weeps and anger deeper than the effort you ever made to demolish the facade of being the unyielding red light that ceased to turn green.
But the light has burned out, and now I don't know whether every flicker you signal to go is just another trap to shun me for moving about.
I'm wearing your sweater and i'm attempting your letter and I swear I can still smell the contempt. It's howling through your ball point pen, written from your fingers all pointing ten in my direction, because i'm forever the one to blame.
Yes, ill take it so I will have to no longer fear that my name to you was just a word you merely shouted but never adhered, never whispered, never heard.
Never again, because now our accents are worlds apart.
My prose is too native for your foreign heart.