Unfinished love letter. 14.02.25

Unfinished love letter    
(A live document)    
14 Feb 2025  
     
Forgive me for sending this little expungement of a diary entry disguised as a love letter.  Sent directly to you from the thought space (junk) of yours truly. Cathartic. Frothy. Semi-edited. Passionate. Ideas. Leaning themselves just over the dotted line of vague boundaries.    
     
But maybe…just maybe….planting a seed…where nothing usually grows….to cultivate a small olive tree from which a single branch reaches out to you?    
     
I hope you get the idea and that it’s plantable, but, entirely understandably, it depends if you have any room left in your garden…    
     
Fuck I haven’t event started the actual love letter bit yet.    
     
Yep. Believe it or not you are the recipient of a love letter. On Valentine’s Day. From your Current. Ex. Lover.      
     
Ready?      
     
Here we go.      
     
To X, my gravely missed, but still very much currently loved, former lover…. a wonderfully funny, vibrant, wiley, creative, sensitive, open, thoughtful, romantic and collaborative companion.
     
I’m watching the final episode,  where you might disappear completely, of which I’m uncertain. You might be physically there but mentally gone. I missed the episode where, sadly, I already lost you.      
It was after episode five during which I decided to break things off again, for a sixth time.      
     
It’s becoming clearer, that after losing you, multiple times (only to rebound elastically into your arms on each occasion) that this time, it’s different.  A catastrophic fear of mine is that I might never experience the same calibre of love and connection again. The likes of which I formed with you.      
     
Heaven forbid I remain destined to continue searching for that which I already posses -  a bit like watching Sisyphus meet Himeros on a disastrous first date.      
     
I’m an optimist, but yeah it’s a damn hard act to follow I tell ya.      
     
I have strongly saturated memories, of holding you so very tightly and feeling flooded with unveiled desires to willingly submit to you. I seem to recall at one point offering up my unfurled hands to be bound together by your scarlet rope, our cheeks hot from the flames of an open fireplace.      
     
I remember our first lovemaking, as that kind of fireside embrace that glowed softly for days afterwards. We watched the slow winding tendrils stretching from the ashes into the hollow space of porous bones.      
     
It only grew from there.      
     
I don’t fully truly understand why I catapulted away from it all. Pulling off perfectly fitted leather gloves, you know the pair I mean, soft timeless vintage, complimenting the form of my hands and keeping them warm and snug.      
     
I can only daftly suggest that I felt somewhat insecure about the conjured up fantasy of where I might be going and who might be coming with me.      
     
I must have tried to un-peel you off my hands, crying stupidly about feeling smothered or something. You were just rightly protecting what you felt to be true.      
     
But of course you left a permanent imprint. You might have even etched the outline of your own hot shadow on my heart.      
     
You seeped into the cracks of me and remnants of you still reside there. So that , when I flippantly tossed a large piece of you in the fucking trash, it wasn’t all of you, as you’d already been soaked in. All I managed to discard was a small dry piece of chewing gum, stuck ironically onto the back page of this unfinished love letter.      
     
I’m not proud of myself for spitting the gum. I suspect it’s somewhat unforgivable, to have also done it multiple times before that, apart from the fact that I really thought I should do it at the time, that I knew better than my rational self, that I needed to trust my gut. Trust myself.    
 
You know I have trust issues right? Least of all being capable of trusting my judgement on this one.      
     
And now really I’m trying to unpick and understand some of the mess I impulsively created, ironing out the crumpled up pages of that love letter, with chewing gum and damp remnants from a squished up fucking rotten apple core ripping a hole in the paper.  What ought to have been an account of the beautiful layers of a deeply meaningful and profoundly true connection is now crumpled paper smudges of ink mixed with apple core and gum.      
     
I’m a stupid fuck.  I still love you. I suspect I always will love you to some degree and I will continue to love and miss what we created together.      
     
One thing is certain though - that there are no permanent guarantees of anything in this world other than at the end of act three we all meet up at the same final crossroad, one way or another.      
     
Maybe there will be a second series one day? I’m ever hopeful.    
     
L xx