Updated: Dec 4, 2022
My accomplishments this month are miniscule in comparison to other months,
In fact, there’s only one: I haven’t thought about you in ages.
Well, except for today.
My little thought changed the trajectory of tonight’s course.
With one little thought came a thousand,
And with a thousand more, came a thousand more,
And a thousand more.
Then all of a sudden I’m writing letters.
Letters on bright yellow papers, which in all honesty is ironic.
I’m writing gut wrenching letters onto paper that shines like the sun.
I’m writing letters about how you pained me, on paper that reminds me of you.
Yellow, because that’s what you once were, my sun.
What do the letters hold?
They old pieces of me that chip off every time I think about you.
Broken little bits. Crumbs. Shards.
They hold secrets I couldn’t tell you,
Ones I’ve never faced.
They carry tears.
They cradle laughs.
They’re every bit of me and yet none of me, all at once.
Because once those words leave the tips of my fingers and hit the lines, they’re no longer me.
They’re pieces of the void.
They’re evidence of the strings inside me that have snapped.
Ones that have glued themselves back together,
Other’s that have yet to find the other end.
A lot of my strings are back together.
You know, I saw a photo of you today, you looked happy.
Like all your strings were still attached.
I wish I could hate you for it, but I’m glad yours are still together.
These silly little letters on silly yellow paper hold confessions.
Confessions my voice can’t let go of.
These silly letters are my way of telling you the truth:
I wish more of me was whole, but I’m glad none of you is broken.
January 1, 2022