Last Letter For You

It's stupid. Don't bother to read it

To You,

…Nosferatu of my Ellen.

It still hurts. But I promise myself this is the last.

I saw the platform… the playlists are gone. The playlists you made for me, the ones you said woke your demon up, the ones named after the way you used to call me, all gone, the only piece I had left from you, vanished without even a goodbye. And maybe that's just how it was meant to be. Now you’re somewhere out there, too far from my radar, out of my reach.

It hurts to think you left.

I know — I left first. But you loved me, right? Didn’t you? Forever? In another life? In the past life? In this life too, not just in some other life we never get to touch?

But you left anyway.

No last word. Or reply of my fool paragraph. And now I don't even know if it was ever really love. Was it love, or comfort? Was it love, or lust? I wanted so badly to believe it was love. But you didn’t even try. You just let me slip away. What a boy you were. I hope you're okay out there. I’ll be okay. Always.

Sometimes I sit alone and rethink it all. Did I make a mistake? Was I wrong to leave? But no — I know now. You were full of lust, and that was your curse. Heavy and hollow. Dark and endless. I’m sorry, but I couldn't carry that weight with you. I couldn't sit there wondering if, the moment I wasn’t around, you would find another to fill the empty spaces. My husband — the one I dream of — would never make me feel that kind of fear.

Call me stupid — but I’m not.

Maybe I was, once, when I tried to tell myself it was normal. When I didn’t know what had possessed me — maybe it was your energy, pulling me in like a storm dressed up as a sunrise. Beautiful, dangerous. False.

I still have the letter I wrote for you.

I wrote it the night after we talked, the night when everything still felt a little bit real. You said you would write me too. Where is it now?

Ugh. I shouldn't even ask. Your letter never existed. It was just another beautiful thing you said to make me stay a little longer, wasn’t it?

I remember waiting for it. I remember not asking, not wanting to seem too much.

Was writing a letter really too much to hope for?

I don't even know anymore.

And I don't want to think about it.

The letter I wrote for you still sits there, hidden in the drawer, buried under books I’ll never finish to reas. Buried under time. I don't even want to read it again. It's stupid now. It’s funny. It’s sad.

Haha.

Be happy.

Be free.

Maybe somewhere, in no existed middle age,

There's souls who almost touched, who almost loved,

who almost made it.