A letter to Christian
This feeling, like a cup of cold coffee, is stale. It tastes awful and untouchable. I want to pour it down the drain and watch it disappear. I could try and reheat it but it wouldn’t taste the same. Nothing ever does. While I brush my hair and watch each different strand fall slowly to the floor it feels like each piece is a part of my heart. I can’t put them back and I don’t understand why they are falling out. Am I sick I often wonder and when will they run out and I will be bald and heartless. Who will love me then? And I’m returned to the feeling of cold coffee, left untouched and cold and alone. Why do we hurt those we care about, those who open their hearts to us and ours to them. Leaving you vulnerable and naked, so I run my fingers down your face feeling every beauty mark, your cheek bones, the lining of your jaw, leaning my head to your chest listening and feeling your heartbeat your warm body against my cheek. I want to look up and see you, really see you, see into you. But then I realize I can’t see you, you won’t let me and I’m brought back to the cold cup of coffee feeling.