Dear you,
I insist you read.
I have written to you numerous times, aching pleasure and guilt.
I'm too tired to be overburdened by your ignorance.
I'm too broken to behold the weight of promises which you laid on me, but never bothered to look upon.
I'm too distressed, to show you the modesty of understanding your troubles, which I want to, but what I want is another story.
We lead powerful lives, and it has been an extreme pleasure knowing you,
to be known by you,
to be understood in every detail of my body,
to be held, captivated, and explored.
It has indeed, been a pleasure.
Pleasure, in the most literal meaning of the word.
We are sinners of what holds us, your passion as for you, and you as for me.
You gathered me, kept my pieces glued up and sticked together before I fall into the epitome of disaster.
Disasters, I've seen.
Disaster, I've been.
I find it strange how after you left, nothing made sense anymore.
I find it strange how you committed to love, but not to me.
I find it strange, and I do not see a reason to not.
Rewriting love stories and emphasising on them has never been you, I could bet I knew that from the start.
Yet dreams falter and passions quiver,
Feelings do fall apart.
Love, for me it has various meanings. Home, for me, has one.
Home, for you, is changing places.
Love, you might not want it.
But I remain firm on wanting you.
And I wasn't taught to retreat, I am a woman who gets what she wants.
And I want you.
Yours Truly.
