The Letter You’ll Send When She Says She’ll Leave You
By Matt Staff
Love,
You’re more than an old friend – star crossed lover – master fucker – yin to my yang (that sounded unintentionally sexual) – you’re the gravity that keeps this old, rest with reckless wear soul from ascending new heights toward an abyss keen on devouring lonesome spirits.
You can say you’ll leave – and I’ll hear you, and I’ll exist on the every beat of a pause between the string of words that follow.
You can go out every door between now and the last that’s an exit from this life and an entrance to the next – and I’ll dutifully as a damn golden retriever named Sandy, ’cause isn’t that a great name, follow you every step of the way.
Why? Why not throw in my chips, and cash out on a reality not alongside you – the young woman, completely and utterly done with me?
Because without you – I’ve no muse. No means to channel the nonsensical shit that encompasses modern day civilization into words that become pages that become chapters to a book readers connect with on a level deeper than you, me, and any fuckin’ bozo can comprehend.
It makes sense doesn’t it? That which I live to create – original, written work that’s hard hitting in the most coveted of places – is meaningless without the young woman I wake for.
So read this my love – then read it again. If any of the pre-described heartfully delivered bullshit resonates with you, as I daringly hope for – I cross my fingers, and rest with unparalleled ease, anticipating a return back to the way things were.
A return to those days off a romantically-driven movie script, where we’d fall like the only two stars off a barren night sky upon your palace of a bed to fuck and make love at the same time in a mindless chase for that fleeting moment we realize all the bullshit we endure on a day to day basis – is worth more than a skeletal two bedroom, and a couple perpetually enraged bosses only capable of speaking ‘unforgiving-spittle.’ Sometimes.
Those days we collectively agreed a break from the cold hard cruelties so damn prevalent in the grandly fucked up rat race society’s so set on playing into was best spent in the company of a soul that fills in all the convoluted, missing pieces inevitable in couple tumultuously lived lives.
So this – this letter awash with the ramblings of a bitter, disheartened man is a call for you to hop back on board the carousel that goes ’round this fucked up, dying old world with a lone passenger questioning why he’d ever get on with anyone else besides you.
– Yours, forever and always.