Dear lover,

It has been quite some time since I last wrote a letter addressed to anyone – not even anything formal, really, mainly because I guess in this day and age letters longer than Twitter 140-characters are often ignored and/or found too complicated for this overly frantic time frame we have been (trying, but more often not successfully so,) keeping up with (maybe thus the ingenious title of that show, but that’s for a whole entirely different discussion,) and anyway, I wasn’t really sure what to tell you. It’s hard to come up with things to say, I have found, when there isn’t a lot options for an ending – and this, sadly, is just that – an ending; we are neither to pause nor to reconsider things, they are just simply, to be ended.

On a regular basis you would ask me how I was doing, maybe it became more difficult as days went by when I had nothing to say and you had no clue what to do with the silence. It came to the point, as it had always with past lovers (or so I thought they were), when you just decided to put meaning in the dragging gaps I took between breaths and the walks I insisted to tread quietly, and I guess as with most things in life that did not offer a meaning, it drove you crazy.

First of all I’d like to apologize for this behavior, amongst many others that I dare not reiterate so as not to threaten future explorers who may be stupid enough to try and make me fall in love again (as if it were their calling, but mostly just because it will have been good for their ego,) and also mainly because I guess I have done too many things to bruise your already calloused heart – and we both know that heartaches are just all the same excruciating without detail. Writing gave meaning, purpose, or at the very least, direction, to the abundance and, too often, the lacking of my emotions, and in these quiet gaps I took too passionately whilst you ponder whatever you thought you lacked that resulted to it, I settled in words in my head.

These words calmed the storms that brawled mercilessly within me, I nestled my insides as to not have them fall out as I knew they always beg to, and I drove myself crazy trying to figure out a way to keep you from the harm that is loving me. And within these moments that you felt least valued, you were all that my darkness held onto for just a shed of monumental light – in the least monumental love affair that is my needing and your destruct.

I gently put off my demons in the way I held your hand, or wrote prose about the way you held mine, and believe it or as you will not, you quieted these burning pains inside me even in the last few exchanges of breaths we reluctantly took between, under, and deeper in sheets before you finally said good bye. They always told me it would be painful, but nobody ever warned anybody how paralyzing it feels (or doesn’t,) to let him slip in between the fingers you took to grip him all too gently and tight at the same time, and realize that this kind of love – this one you’re about to permanently lose, the one you knew would eventually get away – it doesn’t come twice. And no matter how tragically poetic that may just be, it still is unbearably agonizing.

So I write to you now, I guess, not to prove anything but to tell you how loved you are even in the most quiet places of my being that I did not recognize, until the day I felt the lacking from when I finally lost you. And no, my words do not offer comfort nor condone the fact that this is over, but to ask for forgiveness for loving you in a way you never understood, a way I never was brave enough to alter.

In any case, I wish for you to find the love of your life, as I have found in you, mine.

Yours always,