Unsent Letters #1 Poison



Dear Naomi,

As I sit back, again, today to pen you this piece I remember a million pieces like this which deserved a life too, which deserved touch of your hands too, which deserved to be looked at and smiled at by you, but like this one they will never reach or touch or feel you. They will never damage you again. They will never touch your soul again just to squeeze the very essence of your being from it. Haunting how words can cause this much pain, haunting how they can haunt you themselves by both their presence and absence. 

Yeah, we've discussed attachments and losses a million times and who can understand better than me how nothing lasts forever? But I had dreamed forever in you. To me you were the embodiment of that word which I could touch and feel-forever. They say you can't live without each other in love but guess we had been training each other all the time when we were together. That's why you still live, and I still breathe. Is this a life that I'm living? Then how different will death feel like? I still get those dreams of my last moments on this planet; I still find you in those scenes. Change is virtue of life, and I mistook you as the change where the change was your virtue itself. Damn, then what is life?

I've been afraid of nothing more than loneliness in my life, and that's the only piece of you that has been left with me today. I still do have the gifts that you gave, but I avoid any interaction as if they're you. Thing is vice versa too. Funny how loneliness is felt more in an empty space where you expect someone to be...awe the expectations! That word's gonna extract life from my soul someday. The day you left, I was advised to move on or the emptiness will damage me, but everything in world is designed to damage us-we choose our own poison-these mournings, these sufferings of my heart, these hauntings of your long-dead soul which once belonged to me in a distant moment of the past, this void-your absence in the moment has left-that heart preserves as a souvenir, better be that poison which will either kill me slow or make me suffer for rest of the time to come. 

Yours Lovingly,

Stan


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