We all love. At least until we are broken. All of us give and, in turn, will be forsaken. We each have wounds, and leave our scars on others. You and I were no different. Ordinary angels. Fallen once more.
Across the beautiful brutality of time, with futile longing, I sense your impossible distance. And mine. The hollowed out enormity of our imperfect love, and of our failure to live in the grace of its forgiveness.
In this moment, stranded, how easily I dilute in pearldrop sorrow, thankful. In this salty river I melt back into you. That I may be absolved.
We all love…until we don’t.
It is not that I will never be loved again. That is easy to reconcile. Rather, it is that I will most likely never love. This is the mercy that feels like damnation.
Yet, strip all else away, and of you and I this is what remains. The love we made, now in common ruin. Beyond repair. But still a shelter.
FREE LOVE LETTERS 
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