Letter from I to you

I first thought, I’d write you a letter, that I would wipe the years and clear my head and write to you.

Dear you, I would begin, and go on to pour out my heart for you. But the pen wouldn’t move.

I want to ask, have you been well? Do you ever think of the past?

Does your morning sun smile for you? What about the wind that caresses your skin?

Do you walk by the gardens and sigh for a tragic love, like I do?

Did you change much? I dare not ask about me.

Every day, I fight the thoughts of you, they cling to me like perfume, a lonely scent of the morning cold

I have thought and thought of what I’d say if I ran into you on a random day

Would I hold my head high and walk by? Would I stop and greet you with a smile?

Would you recognise that battered face, I wonder. I hope you don’t. Forgotten memories are the best ones to keep.

Life has shrunk into a bubble of hope, no, longing for something, of memories that once used to be reality

I would write to you and tell you about my days and how hollow are the nights that even the velvety darkness doesn’t comfort

Sad love, one that never stood a chance against the fair and just world, naive and foolish king gave away the kingdom for his love and we fight for trivialities

It’s supposed to be a letter from I to you. Could you be I or could I be you? Don’t overthink.

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