I have had my fair share of storm chasing, tiptoed ramblings, quiet mournings, reluctant assumptions, and steadied breathing, but this - you and I, and whoever we once thought we were, (almost) together - this is the unbecoming of glorious, floating beds of cloud into continuous, free falling rain.

I almost hit a wall. A post. Those big island pavements that split the roads into two. Two seconds. That’s all it took for me to take my eyes away from my driving; maybe because it was late, maybe I was exhausted. I was out of body for two seconds and then, there was a post, an island, a huge chunk of formed cement right in front of my car, about a foot from the tip of my headlights. Two seconds from what could've been a life changing, threatening - experience. Two seconds, a split into millis, and then, a miracle: my angel waking me up, my reflexes back on again and I hit the brakes. It was a haze and I had to stop by the roadside, put on my hazard lights, and pray.

She was a troubled little thing that hung around in corners of odd places, staring like a mad man at passersby, putting stories into faces, and killing time with a kind of keenness I never quite understood. Young and dipped in folly,

Dear friend,

Maybe it is far too haste of me to speak of it now - but the littlest love I cannot keep within myself, what more this.

It bangs in my heart and thoughts like a mad man on a wooden door, and I hold my breath each time I have to look at you straight in the eyes, to keep my lips from moving past what I deem appropriate, and spread it out thickly with my voice as it had been in my mind; timing, or maybe, the readiness of your heart - I do not wish to steal you from them nor am I banking in your swift reciprocation - the place, or  maybe, the doubts in your soul - I don’t think it’s time yet for me to say, but timing doesn’t negate nor dampen the effect you have on me, and consequently, the urgency my heart braves in keeping up with the chaos of falling terrifyingly fast into the unknown.

There was nothing spectacular about her, they’d say. She’s got a long list of short-term ex-lovers, I hear. She curses like a sailor and lies like a convict, they’d gossip. Too many times, she’d disappear, I’ve noticed. But there was something about my girl that was like inhaling fiery freedom; the initial sting, with the settling warmth - quietly creeping in my veins like the rise of sun, flammable as most chemicals be, weightless as a ship sailing on roaring seas.

I would stare at your demons and I would carry them incessantly; into the deepest forests, into the farthest of seas – and you would hold my hand and tell me I am loved, and we would go far and beyond, digging and dragging, away with these until I feel like you are ready to love again. But you only tread far enough before your soul’s all strew again; and I will have had the weight of my demons and yours, but no lover to share the pain. You walk with me for far enough but never the same path, and behind your walls you hide behind, until I, too, am lost, again.

No, my love, you are not a firework. For fireworks are rapid, fleeting, bursts of light – beautiful, but passing, loud, but eventually fading. You are the stars against my deep, dark night skies whose light lives on beyond its death, surpassing lightyears, bursting into wild flames before it retreats into an abysmal kind of beautiful. You are my very own universal mystery, and I am still at awe to love you from afar.

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.