It is 2:30 am. I'm tipsy again
And tonight, I don't want to write to you. I want to write for you.
It's about time, my love.
I don't know what you really look like, maybe I never will. Maybe it's for the better too. Maybe every sharp smile on an angelic face isn't yours. Maybe every pair of eyes that lights up at bad jokes and even worse puns isn't yours. Maybe every gentle voice telling me I will be fine soon does not belong to you.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe none of those maybes matter to me tonight.
As I write this now, the lamp beside my bed lights up my corner of the room in incandescent white. The sight reminds me of you, you know? The harsh shadows falling on my bed remind me of you. The way those shadows fade to softer shades of grey remind me of you.
Oh darling, everything reminds me of you tonight.
The loud music blaring in my ears and the silence just past my own little universe remind me of you. The few stars I can see twinkling out my window-- like they know something we do not-- remind me of you. The gentle night air that never takes longer than a moment to turn to a raging wind reminds me of you.
Times like these, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you-- in screaming colour, rather than in monochrome.
You know I've never been much of a writer, my muse. Not a very good one anyway; this letter is proof of my incompetence. But what can I say? Give a girl a glass of wine or two past midnight, a slowly shattering heart, some ink and paper, and the words come spilling out on their own.
You will never see this letter. I will rip it to shreds before I am sober again, I know. By the time you wake up, I will be miles away.
Thinking of you is a poison I drink often. I adore the way it burns my tongue, just the way i imagine your lips, your skin, would. This poison will kill me one day. But haven't you always been the one to say that life is merely the art of dying?
Perhaps, when I do go up in flames, you will come for me.
And then, death will taste sweet at last.
YOU ARE READING
First Drafts - An Ensemble
PoesiaA collection of my own written pieces- ranging from poetry written with an unhealthy mindset to short stories packed with nostalgia to excerpts, drabbles or spin-offs based off stories or roleplays of mine that are in progress.
