It’s been so long, so much has happened, and fear of the unknown prevents me from picking up this phone tonight. It’s been two years today without any information. Two years and two months since we actually spoke. What are you doing? Are you well? Are you happy? Do you think about me, curse me, or even worry? The last thing you’d be is surprised with my absence; that’s true. I know you’d be glad to hear something from me, even if that something was not very much at all. This contempt for my happier self is tearing out of me from the darkness within. And yet I refuse to change.
You always said we’d be together one day, even if that day is decades away. You’d say, “most friends are adrift; screaming into my life, then slowly fading out. But us, we fade together. The screams are the beacons that will never lose the connection.” You’re such a beautiful thinker, a dreamer and a skeptical believer. You could be correct, or was it all a delusion, set forth upon a fourth wish?
This entire commitment rests in your arms. I’ll never be strong enough, courageous, bold, honest or alive. So I hope that you find me and beg me to just listen, to be still. My paradox of ego will crumble the moment I hear your voice.
Yes, things are terrible right now. You’re the only who understands me. Shit is terrible, I know, but shit is worse than it seems.
Waiting in the forest for you, my love.