Dear... Lys
You'll never see this letter. Even if you did, you'll never know it was me who wrote it.
Though you've always seen me as the person who would write you an anonymous letter for strangers to read. So maybe I still have a chance.
The truth is, I can't find the will to tell you what I need to say. I have never been good with words when it came to you. So, I will filter it between three glasses of wine and the voice I hear that keeps me up at night.
It's the same voice I heard that day in the school bathroom, at the bus-stop, in my room, in your arms, and everywhere else.
I recognize this voice because it's yours.
Everything is yours.
My hands, my eyes, my mind, my lungs.
Every single breath I take is yours; though recently I've found it harder to breathe.
I like to think it’s you thinking of me.
But you're not.
You've forgotten about me. And that's okay.
In fact, I have grown so used to the ignored messages and phone-calls, I've been viewing them as my only sense of control because that is all I have left of you.
And this is me holding on to the hope that you miss me.
This is me holding on to the hope that you love me.
This is me holding on to the hope that you think of me.
This is me holding on to you.
Well, whatever is left.