If You Want To Live Forever, Break A Writer’s Heart


I came across old screen shots on my Google drive account today. We were only ten days into our relationship then. I remember because that was the Monday we stumbled across our first fight.

I am pleased to make the discovery that I can still have thoughts of you, which evoke a warmth deep inside of me.
Reminiscing back to when you still cradled my heart with sincere tenderness.

Realizing that drowning myself in grief at every mention of your name, is only prolonging my misery; I choose to conclude this chapter with embracing this memory called US, without feeling betrayed by my soul for re-enacting every past transgression.

The calendar accuses that it’s been over 270 days already. According to how we are programmed, I shouldn’t still be writing you these letters.

But you don’t seem to understand that the worst part about bleeding on this keyboard, is how you’ll read me in heartache and still refuse to find your way back.

Regardless of how hard I try, I can never recall what you said on that spring morning back in October, when you casually chose righteousness over me. Google says that it must be the trauma your parting must have caused to my ‘emotional memory system.’ At least now, I understand better why I suffered such a great loss; it was all the empty blanks of you, cheating me of a closure I needed to reach my rushed healing.

I am not one who ever goes out looking for companionship but yours found a way to locate mine and still managed to discover an exit in just 6 weeks.

I should have known you were too perfect to stay messy for too long.

I’ve eventually stopped feeling stupid for letting the young cherub of love, lead me to my very own brokenness. Besides many have promised that I’ll surely fall in love again. I just hope that by then, I’d have relinquished myself completely from this unrelenting stench of anguish.

For the slowest time, my foolishness had still kept the door you closed wide open, daydreaming of your sensible return. It wasn’t shame that urged me to reconsider the unlikeliness of that happening but rather a stronger gust of my senses coming back to me.

This is supposed to be my last letter to you but so was the one I published months ago. I keep hoping I’ll run out of these paragraphs persistently remedying what you broke, without exposing my hurt for all to diagnose. I can’t discontinue, unless you stop resurrecting as the only scar that demands to be etched on the outside of my skin.

Even when you’ve refused to acknowledge my heart out loud, I can’t ever deny that you’ve mattered to me the most.

And the very next time the deafening scent of our courtship floods my pen with gory ink, I’ve accepted I won’t ever leak you with disgrace.

I might not really remember much about why you gave up on us but I know my words have mastered the art of piecing together every part of me you left torn apart.