The Last Letter
This is the last letter I wrote to you, the one before I burned the bridge, these bridges we’ve walked over too many times. Patching and mending areas as we sink slowly with fear that we could drown. This is the last letter I wrote to you, on a Thursday, the love letters on Thursdays as a promise, a promise I would never break.
This is the last letter I wrote to you, absent of love tales and all the ways I have dreamt of you in many moons. This is the last letter I wrote to you, with no memorable lines about missing you or aches I no longer get as my reality is our absence.
This is the last letter I wrote to you, not bearing any desires that it’ll be us when we multiple the times we would have. The times we won’t have is what our days are counting. This is the last letter I wrote to you, ending the many hours of a need to finding the method to your madness, this madness you’d always have.
This is the last letter I wrote to you, the one that doesn’t spell goodbye as it did some pages before; it’s just a public note of what has lingered in secret. This is the last letter I wrote to you, one I hope you can read on the days the nights are lonely, and the sun stays sleeping.
This is the last letter I wrote to you, the one where I cut the ropes that held this ship as I sail without you wearing the best red and a smile on my face. This is the last letter I wrote to you, embracing peace and beaming joy from all I’m holding offshore.
This is the last letter I wrote to you.