I have never been good at writing letters. Perhaps that’s why things have always been abrupt. I would write paragraphs on loss and hate, heartbreak and failures but i don’t remember writing about love. I don’t remember having happy memories. I haven’t written letters when they were actually needed. I remember rusty papers and my dried quill, not the one line i scribbled and slashed through wondering why wouldn’t i write for you. To save you. To protect you. To bring you back. Because i am miserable at calling back the ones i love. The ink is lost on those – scribbled with love on all fours – bled not from any ink, but my heart. And you forget all you had was to turn back once.
I reminded you long ago. I have never written letters. Only emotions spilling onto white with a framework of words often failing to work in times of desperate needs. Literature has never been my fortè.