Another letter to someone who will never read it
I have let your sadness get to me this week, it sits heavy on my shoulders, slides of it and weighs me down. If I was younger, nineteen, maybe twenty, if I still kept honey and sugar under my tongue I would use the words in my mouth to paint this as something else, make you into someone beautiful. If I was younger I wouldn't feel silly about writing this letter. But I am not young anymore and you are pushing 30, you who are without a country and I am rooted to where I was born. I have made a lover of my city and you never had one to call your own. You carry a failed marriage on your back and I wonder how it must be to love someone that much. You see, my father never loved my mother and I was never loved as a child, and now I cannot love anyone without shame nor be loved without guilt. My mother's sad life is the price on my head. You carry a failed marriage on your back and I wonder how it must be to be loved by you. You are a story with half of the words missing and I have finally, finally decided to let it be, to let you keep your secrets and to let me keep mine. Still, you love little things that live in trees and you love creatures that eat from your hand and that is not enough for me to love you but it is enough to forgive. I hope I won't be as lost as you when I am 30, but 30 doesn't seem as old as it did a few years back and maybe we will always a be a little lost, you and I. Hope you find what you are looking for, if you ever find out what it is.
