Dear not dead yet departed,
I got my hair cut last night. It may sound insignificant, but I kept putting it off earlier simply because you once told me you liked them this way.
So i went about life with a look I didn’t like, trying to pretend i didnt care about validation from a person who disliked me. I know. I’m an idiot.
But even then, split ends carry an eerie similarity, and each time I ran a finger through my damaged, dry hair, I thought about us- and the irreparable damage of our broken relationship.
So off I went, to the hairdresser’s , with an iron resolve, to get rid of the tresses and the memories tangled within them, to free myself of the longing to have your fingers play with their ends again.
I suppose I thought it was easier this way.
To have someone else sever the connection while I kept calling you on an overcrowded line- longing to hear the sound of your voice, longing , wistfully to have you listen.
I suppose I understood, at last, that it was time to cut the call.
To rid myself of my infatuation, one snip at a time.
But even though my hair is half its length,my ardor or rather , my pathetic-ass shit where I mope around searching for remnants of the past remains undiminished. I’m not over it. I’m not over you.
Not yet, at least.
I’m not over how people believe they are being kind when they say “it’s not you, it’s me”
I’m not over how hard it is to let go when you’re still confused about what went wrong, and where.
I’m not over knowing that when you said I wasn’t the problem- I was.
Even though it took you months to get it out , after ages of prodding from my end.
I’m sorry I don’t have the guts to say this to your face.
I’m sorry I have to hide behind this fictitious facade .
I’m sorry I can’t forget how easily you promised me forever and then forgot.
That my memory is selective and stupid – that it makes me remember how the things you hate about me now were the same things you once fell in love with .
I’m sorry I let myself fall for you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you needed even though you gave me so many chances.
I’m sorry I couldn’t give you space or for thinking that you didn’t need it.
I’m sorry I don’t understand subtext , specially when implied in textual conversation.
I’m sorry about so many things , and even though I never thought I’d say this – I’m sorry about us.
And I’m sorry about me.
You know how in 10th grade we began our formal complaint letters with the words “I regret ”
I guess then , that this is mine
” I regret” to inform you that my heart’s a casualty of the wounds you so callously inflicted.
It will heal,but in the scarred remnants of our shared memories, I will remember you for the good times and the bad.
And I will learn
To guard my heart.
To love and be loved.
To never settle.
To accept change, in life and people.
To accept the change in you – From best friend to stranger .
I don’t think it’ll be the same when we meet again.
I know that in the intersection of our journeys, you chose to leave me behind.
I don’t know when I’ll see you again. But I do know that our love was a miniscule particle in a ginormous universe, and despite all it was , I would never chase it the same way again.
I can feel the longing wash away at last , and I rinse my head of the suffocating thoughts of you , I begin to understand what it’s like to wish upon a star, and to have the wish granted- even if for just a few days .
I think, perhaps, that this is how we’re meant to be – nothing more than a hand touching a flaming, brilliant comet that burned out before reaching the sun-
It will take me time , but maybe one day
when I look at its ashes , i will remember the beauty and not my burns.
Lots of love and unsolicited hugs,
Your deserted damsel dealing with her distress .