dearest hewhoshallnotbenamed,

the truth is, every single night i do clumsy pirouettes in my bedroom to your illegible handwriting, the poetry by you that i never got to read. i want to inhale you like stardust and bring you back to life whenever the tears gather on your long lashes as you remember the pain you experienced as a child. i want to burn your recollections like newspapers among firewood and help you to forget them.
[but only in a perfect world can that occur.]

the truth is, i like to wear diamonds around my neck and pretend that you gave them to me under the stars beneath your bedroom window, and kissed me tenderly and forgot every other aspect of yourself that you created. and we fell asleep together among pine needles that dug into our skin, but in our ecstasy, we couldn't feel a thing.
[i wanted you. i needed you. i craved you. i loathed you. and now you're nothing but a memory.]

the truth is, you tied a black ribbon around my eyes in yet another nightmare, and whispered, "come and find me" into my ear and ran for the distant hills. and in my attempt to find you, i tumbled blindly down a well and drowned in the murky water. you didn't even hear my scream.
[i awoke the next day to finally realize you were leading me on.]

the truth is, i love you endlessly. and why is the question.

yours,

shewhoshallnotbenamed