Love letter # 70
I chose the fire. Now look. Burnt.
Does it really matter how I got here? I’m here now – wishing maybe I wasn’t – knowing I should be. Yet even though it was my ultimatum, the nights are still empty and I long for them to be filled with something akin to your nearness. The handbook says I shouldn’t but I would still kneel for the approximation of your kiss.
Now that I am here in the dirt, what matter the heights I fell from? Explanation is a palliative; and a poor one at that. I might spend all night dreaming of you but in the morning you will still be gone; and there will be a space beside me, a gap in everything that you once filled with your light.
I chose this cold. Now look. Shivering.
There is nothing we do that does not cost us something. The price we paid for love was the end of love – and the price I am paying for this conclusion I have so wisely engineered is that love has yet to reach its end.
Time, I am assured, will take some of these things away. Until then … well, I think we both know. I may be strong enough to accept this outcome but not so tough that I would not wish it otherwise.
I chose this knife. Now look. Cut.