The entirety of my being is trapped in the cosmos of all things — of you.
The morning dew greeted me today with the ache of yesterday, or perhaps the certainty of "what was once mine."
There was a receipt in my hands, where grief was found and the silence felt like love letters delivered in front of my door, and I was told, "It’s June; no one is kind."
A week from now, it will be June. Followed by the same day, but it will be July, and then next, August.
Absence of green.
The sun bleached my skin.
Tears of joy.
There was a time when I thought being trapped in the cosmos of all things was part of being loved, loving, giving chances, and breathing.
But it’s exhausting; nobody has yet to answer this call — or perhaps the center of this letter is written for you. Mostly because I have yet to find the reason why you can’t put out the fire in me.
So I could grow cold and wither and paint my soul an endless winter — but it’s so cold, and I have got to deal with that.
And there you are, away from the shore. It’s night again, but it’s still June, and my heart is still in silence.
"Grief is your receipt that you actually loved," I said, giving myself a little pat on the back. I’ve tried everything to keep it all together. This time, I’ll allow myself to let things happen and show myself a little mercy. I deserve it.
I hope June will be kind to you.