the last letter i’ll ever write you

this is a series of acknowledgements of the things we did and didn’t do and their catalogues collecting dust of the eyelash wishes i wasted on your laugh and your hands and your mouth of all the stupid little love stories i wrote before ever having one for myself

this is a series of confessions that i prayed for every traffic light to turn red just to steal a few more moments with you that i have always been a sputtering, floundering, helpless romantic that you are the only love i have ever wanted to keep and i no longer have that luxury

this is a series of incriminations for the words i said drunk and sober yet desperate and terrified all the same for the times i made myself sick trying to swallow rotted infatuations for the things i held onto so tightly that they shattered

this is a series of lamentations of the places and people we will never be together crossed out but never erased of all my spent sentiments that i will never get back of all the ways i will try and fail to convince myself one day it will hurt less

this is a series of rememberances of gratitudes and platitudes and apologies and eulogies little words that will never reach you to salve me or absolve me but that i still hope might nonetheless.