The Letter // 12.6.25

So let me be in chaos. Give me the space I never asked for. Pick up pieces and empty trays. Never had. Never felt. Left. You did and I did not. In the early hours with no sleep I whisper. Come back to me. I wasn’t prepared. Not for you, not for anything. Just lost fuckboyz and drinkz until dawn. Tiring and dragging. Crossing fingers yet staying in the same bars. There was no room for love. I made it still, in everything. I made room. In chaos. Inside dreams. Because of everything i ever wanted. Because. You. I made you and I, fit. In country songs I now shouldn’t listen to, and new habits. I watched. Followed. Like the growing apple tree outside your window, laying naked on your black leather coach believing it was somehow us. Going from green to blossom, thinking about the best time to be in love. In transition.

Spring come summer. I told you "this is going to be the worst one yet" right after you told me. When I couldn’t believe it yet. When my mind still wanted to understand you, first. So I did. Told you what you needed to hear so you could leave, yet never asking you to. I told you I cannot. Not ever. Not even now. Because my body still wants you, and only you. I can’t force it. I know. I’ve tried. My touch will never become yours. I know. It is a waiting game. Making small changes within something I need, yet don’t want. Not yet. Just for the sake of it. Sharing it like it was news, my addiction. Us. I display you, but i know you don’t mind. I promise they don’t see everything. Not the way you did. Unfiltered happiness. Light. Love. Truly. Deeply. Sincerely. Not holding back because we never said we really had to. No reason until it was there in front of me. For me to leave too. Pick up pieces and empty trays. Pack bags. Move. Work. My work. Like really. No talk. No drinking with fuckboyz who think i want to mother their children more than just, fucking. A brave assumption, I tell them seeing irony not accessing their minds. Wondering when honesty suddenly became prediction. Age, I think. My age. What I want them to say. Pull my hair back and whisper. "Underrated". "Undervalued". I know.