All the letters I’ve wrote to you, over the past few years, have piled on my desk, collecting dust, collecting age. And every memory I wrote about is collecting time. I often think about my last couple of days in New York. And how much more sweet the thought of leaving was than bitter. Everyone told me I couldn’t run from my problems, and it took me some time to see why. Once I began to slow down, there you were, tapping me on my shoulder. Begging me to step back into the memory of you. And I was right back where I started, before I ran away.
My memories seem to be more like a story I’ve read. And it’s still hard, being the one that’s left. Memories fade, and then what do you have?
It’s an absurd thought, that a moment that had meant so much, could fade so easily to be replaced by another moment. How a couple bad memories could ruin something that brought so much happiness. We soon forget how good it felt, just because of the sour ending.
And the ache wasn’t when all the words in my head bled together, when they pooled and I couldn’t put order. No, it wasn’t when the voice got louder, or when their weight got heavier. It was when it all went silent. When the calm took it over, that scared me. When each sigh couldn’t even fill the emptiness growing inside of me. My day thoughts I could control, but the night thoughts, those were the untamed.
And in all that time it took me to claw my way out of that hole, and all the countless, ungraceful falls back down, I realized, there’s no such thing as a clean cut. There’s always fraying. An open wound is still an open wound. And by morning, you hope that the bleeding has stopped.
It’s been years since I was the person you loved, and years since I left that life behind.
I could feel the sigh slip from my chest. And in what seemed like forever, I was okay. I was truely okay. It’s a moment you never forget, when you finally realize you’re ready to live again. And when I feel that life is passing me by, I remember how long those days felt, and how hard of a struggle it was just to keep breathing. But I survived. And your letters… well, I’ll let them continue to collect that dust and age right along with your memory.