These days,
my letters have been imprinted with the scent of forget me not.

Written with a heavy hand gone unsteady,
as if I’m ready for everything and nothing - all at once.

It’s these days that I find myself writing you. Even when the breathed whispers of departure linger - And the threat of a loosening grip stands.

Heavy.

Like night before the dawn. Like the breathes after the long drawn miseries we’ve put ourselves through.

So I write you...

Sending love notes and postage stamp promises to a lost address.

Reaching for something that seems obtainable but is never close enough to touch. Searching for the answers…

Maybe, I’m asking too much. But the gap between us is more than what you can pin on a map.

We’re slowly starting to sap away at the few things that make us stay. The few things I can’t stop writing about.

The drought of joy seems unending when the ending seems so - distant. Distant in the way that the day after tomorrow is non-existent to a man with only 24 hours to live.
In the way that the desert still dreams of the sea it once was.
In the way...a voice echoes when asking unanswerable questions because... because -
You never will be here, will you?
You...never will.


Love,
the girl still writing.