a fond farewell.

Shall I write you a love letter, my love?

These past few days, I've thought of you and smiled. I didn't see the day coming, where it'd be a smile of acceptance and fondness of you, instead of a smile of pity for my younger self. Cos, you know, I ran from you when I thought you didn't love me.

I was truly and quietly devastated at the thought, at the news that you'd given yourself to someone else. Physically at least. It seemed more than you'd given to me. But I realised that all was not as it seemed. It sounds naive now and it hurt deeply then and still does now.

When I think about it, and everything I heard from everyone but you, the yearning I've had for you burns from a fire to a flame, and I shudder with regret that I ever had the hope that I was special to you in some way.

My heartbreak over you was quiet and private. I let it lead me to believe that romance isn't real. That it's made it up, and sinister in its very existence. 

That tiny flame of yearning burns indignantly in my chest, and it is the single measure of hope I have, that a love I imagine yours to be, could be mine, if it truly is what it could be.

In the meantime, I, of course, have written poems about you. So many it seems. All of them teeming with angst and fuming from that flame with indignity . The sum of them all, romance isn't real because you're not mine.

Anyway my love, whats a love letter without a poem? Whats a love letter if not a poem?

How shall I start, honey? Seeing that word written down sounds funny.

..Mine. mine mine mine.. My sweet longing grows divine.. no that doesn't make sense.. mine, mine, mine..

After all this time, how can I still be wondering if you'll be mine? 

Mine to love, mine to kiss, mine to sit with and reminisce. Mine to discover, mine to experience, it feels like loving you will clear my conscience. Taking the good with the bad, holding you when you're sad, seeing you when you're glad. That smile those eyes, that look that made me feel shy. Like 'damn, I really like this g**'. But since then I've ran away, we haven't spoken and now you're a sea away.

There's so much I didn't say, then and now, that fact remains. Like how do I begin to explain? What do I say about me running away? What did your Wh**sa** message say? How do I ask you to explain? How do I describe what's going on in my brain, for autism's sake? Might as well leave it, forget the sea, with everything that's happened you're more like worlds away from me. But how can I do that? I keep seeing your face. But bloody hell, longing isn't divine, it's a waste. 

I don't regret running away, how was I supposed to stay? And it's turned out to be one of the best decisions I've ever made. Why's it such a big deal that I miss your face? I don't think this should all be that deep anyway. Cos you could never be mine, you're no ones property and neither am I, but love as possession is the standard and it always sounded nice. But if I'm being honest, in speaking of love, it's not synonymous with romance, but we can't seem to draw differences from it.  Cos if we did, we'd have to admit, I never loved you and you had a funny way of showing it. So this is must be a wretched romance because, word to Paolo, love never fails, does it?