Letters to her, us and our abstract love

The one in which I kinda know what I feel and cry over her possible death

Letter #1 (#5?) 

Eight months after you tear my heart

I've though for so long - eight months to be exact - that I miss you. That I miss us.

That I miss your laugh and dumb jokes. That I miss our glances. That I miss your hands intertwined with mine. That I miss my head on your shoulder. That I miss our little abstract love story.

For so long I've thought that we could have been everything if I-you (as the concept of us both as one) hadn't been cowards. I-you thought you-I didn't care. I have given you my tears and my guitar. My songs and my notebooks. I gave you my fragile intense little heart in the form of my wet hair and my umbrella in your hands in a rainy day.

For so long I've thought about your lips. What their taste may be. Perhaps sweet like the honey you put on your crackers. Probably salty like the chips we bought at uni. Perhaps dreamy like the idea of first love. Perhaps painful like your ghost right now.

So long, so long.

The truth is, though, I don't miss you. Or us.

I miss what we were supposed (meant?) to be. I miss our shot. I miss the concept of being yours and you being mine.

Because I am like that (you know me well). I'm a romantic. And I loved (love?) you.

It's the first time I have admitted it. I didn't say it before because I was terrified, I didn't say it after because I thought it was too late. I didn't say it then because I thought it wasn't true.

And now you are dying and all I think of is "fuck, we could have been amazing together. We could overcome you illness".

I know it is selfish. I know it is mean. I know I am selfish and mean. I swear I am aware, and I guess it is one of the reasons why I never said anything. We both deserve something else.

Anyway, your illness is not fading and I can imagine myself mourning for the love I have no right in mourning for. But I also know you will be okay. And in the extreme case - I won't even think about it because it is impossible - you die, be sure that a part of me will die with you. Cliche but true. You were my first abstract.

I still think we could be great together. Book material. I still do.

Note: Of course, I can never know with myself. It is always the mere glimpse of you that takes me back to August. And I'm tired. I don't want to see you ever again. Please. I want to smile when I think of you and when I see you on the street. I want to be over you. Over us.

Note 2: Please don't die. Don't kill me.