It always feels like night-time when

I'm talking to you.

Perhaps you are my dream

A fantasy to live out

Only after hours.

It drags on to day and somehow you're not gone.

But who am I to judge the

Realism of

Illusions?

Lessons we learn,

Stories were told,

And I have gained nothing.

I close my eyes and

Step backward. Unable to

Face the cowardice I am showing

Today.

In my mind, I run.

Faster than the wind.

(I haven't left my seat in

Hours and hours. I

Await your response)

It would be

So easy

So kind

So terribly weak of me to

Take my words back.

I know I have time, yes. I have

All the time the world will give

Until you return.

But all rivers run out sometime,

The ball drops. With

No guarantee to get

Back. No quick save option in real life.

I stand before you, naked

Under your gaze that holds

No warmth

Because I cannot see you through my

Screen.

Now the clock was ticking steadily

As I was nervous

And you were reading, I could tell.

No response.

The night turns into day. This is

Where I start shrinking and

Hiding. Am I the imaginary,

the wisp of smoke in

Dreams, am I the illusion?

The haze clears,

The sun is rising,

And I?

I sit in my room wondering if

Any of it was real.

We are writers, and we are

dead.

You coax a breathing thing out of your

words, descriptive and

not always

beautiful.

If we were painting you would have a

modest canvas and draw

lifelike portraits.

Like the Mona Lisa.

You write because you want,

you expose the darkness of

humanity and our mortal

being on this plane of existence.

you bring forth with you

the representation of all the

broken dreams

painful memories

frustration.

I? I don't write.

Not the way you do.

Nothing I could put down

pen-on-paper

will ever hold a

candle to your

unashamed burst

of words.

If we were painting I would be

The abstract.

Large canvas, and a small hint of

light grey splashing the cloth.

I don't write.

Save your breath for

the more artistic

the eloquent

the elegant.

It's 4 am and somehow I'm not asleep.

Curled up on my mattress.

I join a call that my friends are talking in. It's 8 pm over where they are and I really couldn't be missing them more.

And then I heard you.

You, the guy with the funny profile picture.

You, with the deep voice.

You, you, you.

I get obsessed.

I don't talk.

In two hours you leave.

But I know that

You'd never notice me because I'm nervous.

Shy.

And she liked you first.

She knows you better, in a way I could never.

So I leave these moments of admiration behind.

In the day, I don't wonder about

You,

And your stupid attractive voice.

Your sarcasm.

And the way I fell in like. (I'm scared to think about it)

But in the night,

I let myself think.

Let my guard down.

Fantasize.

Because I've never wanted to dance with anyone

but you.

Who said a little crime wasn't romantic?

we run as we mouth at ice creams

stolen from the store down the road

you pass me the keys to your room

and i steal clothes that are yours

we go out to some bars and drink too much

but it's fine when we drive together

i stop at an atm and we break the damn thing

you grab the money and we escape

we skip down alleys late at night and some guy tries to touch me

you knock him out quick and clean then put him in the backseat

you take us back to your basement

i take his arm out

we strum guitars and sing at each other

while his blood stains the floor

but it's not enough

we can be the most romantic

i set the dynamite down on the floor of the church

and you link it up like a deadly daisy chain

you light it up

and we watch it all burn

like fireworks in the night sky

but brighter

who would dare to say to me that

crime isn't romantic?

Hey. You remind me as if I don't check my emails every day. I just found that amusing. I do actually use this email for communicating with people, you know. The only inbox that matters to me.

To answer your first question, I will probably be waiting for a long while.

What for? I wish I knew. Waiting is such a mundane task, and yet when put into context it becomes the most adrenaline-filled pause before the fall.

Your second question was to ask if I was still hurt.

Are you? Let me ask you.

Your answer is as good as mine. I don't know what your is, so ultimately you will be the only one to know the result. No, my happiness doesn't depend on you, and my memories no longer dwell on you either. But your guess is as good as mine. Does the hurt go away?

Your third question touches the border of both yes, and no. I can safely tell you that I used to love you.

But to be honest, I know what love feels like. But I don't know what tells it apart. If you asked me to pick it out in between the millions of words I could express, I would be thinking for the rest of my life and possibly beyond. So yes, perhaps I still love you.

But I know that love doesn't always last. At some point innocent little me thought that love was a forever, something that would be as permanent as human existence. Not that that's gonna last with climate change. And I know that things have changed so drastically within myself that I probably couldn't tell "love" from "contempt". At least, I think. I wouldn't know. So perhaps I don't love you.

I read this over and it sounds like I either love you, or hate you. No. This feeling shit is a conundrum, but this much I know- Nobody wins, either way. So it's just. A hair's breadth from figuring itself out. I just need a little more time.

And addressing your fourth question, why do you assume that I write you because of this? My life has nothing to do with yours, and vice versa. I have nothing against you, but nothing that aids you. You hold virtually no power over me, and even if anything was my fault I would not take blame. No, I write for myself, as an outlet. I write because you don't read, and if you do I know you'll never find my real words. The words that anyone would have understood but yourself. I made sure of that. I don't want you to try anything, or take anything I say to heart. Half the time it's sleep deprivation anyway, but thank you for caring.

Your second email gets another sections. The reply on my musings of the night.

It's masochistic thoughts, not sadistic. Search it up?

I'll let you know this, though. I am no longer jealous, angry or sad. Thank you for reading my few rants, and providing me closure. I deserved it, and I recieved it just fine. So thank you.

I loved the writing, actually. The difference is that I've always loved to be alone, and you've never wanted to stew in your thoughts. I, will admit, am the person written in the first half of the passage. I need my personal space, yet enjoy friendships and socializing. So no, I don't understand how you hate the writing. But you don't have to explain, I got the gist.

My waiting is not forever, I know. I'm not waiting for you, I'm waiting for life to slowly move on for the both of us. I know, I sound like an asshole. But that's the truth. I would have said, if you asked me this a week ago, that I'm waiting for you to catch up. But that's simply no longer the case. As a decent human being, I'll be here for you as long as you ask. I may be straightforward and angry sometimes, but that dosn't mean I'm cruel. But the point being: As Long as you Ask.

Forgive me for being too open about this. But you're missing yourself. And control. Yes, I thought you had strong control over your emotions and feelings, and I believe you think so too. News flash: you don't. Now that I can see you from a outer perspective. You switch emotions within the blink of an eye, blame others for little things (I don't think you notice? But it's still hurtful to the others here). You self-decapricate too much and take credit too little. Live the small things, and hold your own. Nobody can be there for someone who's absent.

I guess now that I'm writing I've had an epiphany.

I miss you in the late nights when you used to fill the gaps with words. But now I've let you go.

I don't think that's love. I know you can see it's not, either.

I realize now, that this will probably be one of the last emails I will send you. At least on this account. Because what's the point? If you want to contact me, email me properly, I guess. I will always answer, and I will be waiting, but only if you ask.

And as a last word?

Thank you.

some days

when I start reading

S A D

books

There's a pain in my heart.

I open my mouth to let it out.

I choke.

It strangles my ribcage

just around the underband of my bra.

Why is it there?

When did it get there?

I hate it.

I can't breathe,

And yet when I can't feel it

I miss it.

Or perhaps I just want to feel again.

Dear father.

you've been sick.

you haven't always been

but you were.

for a whole two weeks I knew about it

and I held on to hope

for as long as I could

that you would live another twenty years.

Just like you told me

(never lose hope! Life has it's ways of surprising us with gifts.)

Twenty-second of March.

And it took twenty-two seconds for reality to sink in

When the monitors stopped whirring and beeping

And when the silence started to pierce my ears

And your heart just...

stopped working.

You were lying there,

An unmoving, fading person

that wasn't really a person anymore

instead a memory.

I didn't cry.

Should I be sorry?

The nurses looked at me like I was crazy

You were just gone

and I looked as if I'd already moved on

But you'd understand me if you were alive.

I am the oldest, after all.

I take the head of this family now.

Now that you're gone...

I couldn't cry

because I wanted to be like you.

the infallible, hopeful, supportive figure

that was always there for us

and my brothers need that now.

but you aren't here.

We're full grown adults

We have stable jobs

our own families,

but

even after all three of us grew up

even after we married

even after we moved out

we still needed you

I still need you

but you aren't here.

Is it my fault?

That I didn't check up on you enough?

I could have done better.

You might have lived if I did something.

However far fetched that sounds.

It was pneumonia,

not a sudden death at all,

but I still feel guilty,

like I could have saved you.

In the end,

when your lungs filled for the final time

and the tubes couldn't drain fast enough for you to breathe

and you were coughing

and drowning in air

you looked like you were in pain.

maybe you heard me

maybe you didn't

but I told your heart to

hold still.

Maybe then

you would finally be at peace.

I know too much about the dark.

It frightens and terrifies with its unpredictability,

Children hide until they reach maturity.

I know the dark appears anywhere, so when it edges away from night

To daytime you see it’s still there.

You observe the patterns of its domination.

I know too much about the dark.

It sucks you in and spits you out into your own graveyard of

Pills, pain and pale pink walls.

And I know even more about the dark.

Its silence that rings through empty hallways.

I never knew how loud it was.

And yet the dark is a protector,

that shields you from the outside world,

Pray you don’t get torn away,

Shatters of you left in the white room.

I know too much about the dark,

And because of that I’m safe, submit.

For I know the secrets, they left a mark,

And I’ve no need to hide from it.

I know in my heart that you will ruin me.

You'll break me by your kindness, care,

But you'll trash me by your absences.

Because we both know you'll leave.

You always do, at the end of the day

No matter how much I beg you to stay,

I've pleaded you to,

I need you still,

But you won't, and you never will

Because I'm just the puppy you see at the shelter,

The one you entertain but adopts like, never

(How do they not see your ruthlessness?)

Playing nice,

But hiding with a front,

You have skin in the game

And you own your shames

You can win at the blame

But you're stuck in your frame

I never had you

But maybe you never had you either