I am writing this letter to you (that you will never read) alone. Because even writing to you in the presence of my beloved man feels like cheating. Cheating to the present with the past. I’ve run out of things to say to you long ago, but you keep coming to me in unexpected ways. Like a stranger on the street, like that picture of you I just saw on the beach. And I ask myself, and I also ask of you – why do you keep coming?
Have you left something in me that you have forgotten? Is it something that you miss? Did you rub it in my skin or did you spill it in my head with all the rest you’d said? You didn’t trust me enough to leave something so precious for you that it would make you haunt me at times like these. I was like a beautiful song to you – I made you happy in some ways but you could have done without me. Or if they didn’t play me on the radio, you’d probably never even think of me. But that was okay, because music usually lives a life of its own.
Or is it that I am the one that keeps coming to you? The subconscious me that probably feels there were many words unspoken, many deeds undone, many goods uncraved for and many bads unsettled? My wounds are healed now, but I guess a scar remains there to remind me of what I did to myself because of you. Were it not enough?
I have stopped myself so many times in trying to reach you that I mastered this art of resistance to perfection. Yet this time I bend , but it is only to beg of you that you leave me alone. I am drug free now, savouring another’s breath.
I am letting you go: