I would have written to you every day. But you don’t care and slowly...neither do I.
It’s not the difference in our age, or our culture. You *don’t care* and I can’t make you change your mind.
You want someone to fit into your mould, the perfect version of a stranger you have in your head. Or better still, you want someone who is a repeat of your past. Where do I fit in? Does it matter to you at all? I’m starting to be quite certain it doesn’t...
I fall short. I try, but I fall short miserably. I do not have the wisdom, I do not have the finesse. I’m still so young and stupid but you, you know it all. You know exactly what you want.
I am someone who makes you feel comfortable but never someone beautiful, never someone you’d cross oceans for. My ears long for a nice word, any nice thing. But you do not seem to have anything to say. I don’t blame you. Maybe I’m not good enough. You want so much more, so much better.
It’s okay, my darling L, you don’t want to love me. I guess I understand. I’m not someone who fits into your picture. I’m, me. So fragile, so vulnerable. You don’t want to work so hard. You want love to be easy, you want love to be magic. Maybe, only, if you wanted to see my beauty despite my brokenness you’d understand.
My love is self-immolation.
My love is sacrifice.
And more than anything else in the world, I want you to find that “special someone” magically, without any effort. Because that’s *your* idea of love. Not mine.
Kisses
S
