I have lost sight of the stars, there are so many nights spent longing under the same dark expanse that threatens to swallow me whole. And sometimes I wish it would.
I stumble through the dark, where the fog meets my ankles and dances playfully as if to prove something but I’m searching for an old, forgotten lighthouse, the one thing that reached out for me when the blackness thickened. I still see traces of its luminous existence, fading in and out with the sound of the wind in the leafless trees, rustling past my ear and down the coast where I believe I was born to live and die. I guess I always thought I’d live out my years, with my soul cast into the sea, where a different piece of me is cast into the ocean with every changing season. When those gusts find their way back home to your door step, I know you’ll be able to sense our legacy in the air, we were always so in tune with each other. And I hope you’ll find closure in knowing there was no other choice.
I always knew you’d be the one to cast the first stone.
Somewhere between the inevitable fault line and a pipedream exists a wrinkle in time, a place where I can reside, that only locks and opens from the inside. So no one can try to live my life for me. I will create a reality, a story in and of itself, where I can float weightlessly amongst my emotions personified through tangible representations of my life and my heart. My reality will be my best kept secret and my most prized possession because there is something so serene about having something that is truly yours, through and through.
I have lost sight of your eyes; they were the stars in my skies, those familiar friends that became so important to me in the long run. They guided my way so many times, like some old ancient literature that sits on a shelf for generations until someone comes along in desperation. Except I wasn’t desperate, I was just helpless, and you never stayed in one place.
You always told me to write, to write until my hands were no longer able, and I believed there was some kind of precious, underlying motive that slipped through the cracks between your radiated wavelengths. I always thought the letters you requested but never received were exemplary of your concept of “always keeping in touch” but I think I’ve grown to learn that it was never about me, but to further clear your conscience from the lasting damage you dealt to my seasick heart, it was a seasickness you caused. You knew writing was the one thing that would never leave me, so that when you did, you knew that something was taking care of me still. It’s such a bittersweet thing.