Letters

It's been 6 months, 3 days and 17 minutes Since you left me. Since you tore out the pages that made up your book and cut the future short. Red ink was all that remained when you left me, this puddle this void, I felt it. So I picked up a journal, little and blue, and I began to write. I started with a date, The day you said your first words to me. Then, I wrote your name, It felt so powerful to see it in dark ink, to look at the curves, the letters my very own hands drew up, It Breathed. That was just the beginning.

After I wrote your name, I started your story, everything you'd ever told me, fleshing out the little details, the snarky stories of your siblings, your strange relationship with your parents, the breakups, makeups and grungy little details. I found my solace in the writing, you were the best Muse I'd ever had. I kept going, page after page, With every word I felt your skin, the touch of your hand on my arm, the brush of invisible kisses on my temple as light as paper between my fingers as I turnt the page. With every word you came back to me and with every word I cling to the memory of you.

Until one day, one day I ran out of stories to tell, I felt you fading. My heart was filled with anguish there was nothing I could do. What could you do if words were not enough? If you'd run out. I searched for years for answers and found only one. To bring you back.

Now I stand, in my room, surrounded by a pillar, a table cloth with indecipherable symbols, I find myself chanting your name along with a string of latin, I'm shaking now, the power coursing through me, my heart palpitates, the wind picks up to match. I'm crying now, it feels like I've run a marathon.

When suddenly I hear it, For the first time in a long time, it's you.

"Hey," your voice is hoarse, your skin pure white and paper thin. "I got your letters."