Someday when you're unlucky, I'll kill you with my words. Start running away right now.
Dear friend with the beautiful back, 'cause that's all I see now,
I chose to write to you. The convolution of the situation was scalding me & I chose to walk away. No, I didn't admit defeat, I didn't cower, I chose to do the sane thing, I wrote. I wrote because I can always erase the hurtful words I write, before they reach the person they're meant for, I can vent without being angry. I wrote because I can't really take back the things I angrily say, that which I don't think through, mean or don't believe in. I wrote because it's difficult to be angry at a letter, because when we're at war, seeing you makes me want to sit down with you; seeing me, makes you want to run away.
If you thought I was wrong, why didn't you just say so. I would've let you shout, scream, moan, throw your arms & legs up in the air. I would've gone through it all because you were more hurt than I. Why'd you choose to walk away instead? It aches to think years together have whittled down to nothing more than distance. Before you left, you used the choicest of words. You tore the flesh from my bones, clinically dissected my mental faculty & still had some left to share with others around you. You told me of your bitterness I wasn't aware of, of problems that I thought were long gone. You chose to bring them up, because when there's that much blood spilled already, some more would surely help you vent. What's worse is you committed yourself to your words. You stood by your decisions. I'd salute your steadfastness, if only I could justify it.
Isn't there just the slightest chance we're both at fault here? Had we deteriorated without notice? Yes, you're the judge, jury & executioner. You based our relationship on your account of that one day. You're impervious to my pleas, ignorant of the truth, & in denial of what I meant to you. You may say you're angry enough, but you're not, unless you're going to punch me. Unless you're eager to land a right-hook, there's still hope. Because when the smoke blows over, there isn't any nuclear winter, just a few people getting on with their lives.
Its more a game of time than words right now, & too much has passed. I'm tired of writing. I'm wiser because, I finally realize that letting go has its own charm. I have many friends, none better, but I chose to fight for you. And now, I choose to walk away from you.
Maybe someday, you'll look back at what happened & a doubt will creep in. You'll wish you'd chosen your words wisely. Maybe, someday you'll move on, not walk away; you'll remember how intimately I loved you, our time together.
Maybe someday, I'll turn & there won't be any time for letters; I'll tear you apart with my words, except I won't be there to stitch you up again. Would you fight for me then?