It’s been a while since I have been honest with my words. I know i write a lot of love letters while sitting in front of this typewriter but I haven’t been so honest with words.
I believe the reason is that I am still waiting for your letter, for your words. I guess that’s the state of desperation when your body needs love, when you need to sit in front of that one person and tell your stories that would make sense to just her.
I would have never loved you the easiest way for love can never be easy.
But I wanted to love for how imperfect you were to this world.
All the things that didn’t matter to this world, it mattered to me. I remember asking you your favorite memory and you would say fixing pictures on your grey wall and i would have simply smiled and tell you that we are bound to make this happen.
To my 29th letter and to my ninth cigarette,
I sit here on the rooftop as my hands miss how they used to pull your hair in just mere words. For how my lips would travel through your breasts in just mere words. For how my eyes would glow when I would see you with nothing but laces in just mere words.
For how our love was defined with nothing but just in mere words.