Honestly I thought after all this time that your words would fill me more with relief or validation than remorse, but you have always had a way of surprising me despite your rigid disposition. Closure is a luxury in some cases, and a slap in the face in others. I think we are somewhere in the middle. There is a grave satisfaction that comes with knowing that you still think about me, about me writhing underneath you, and that no one has ever compared. What a pity that you refuse a life of passion and nail marks, for one filled with solitude. Even more pitiful of me to relish that I’m the one you call when you’re lonely. Though palm trees and state lines keep me safe, just knowing I am in your thoughts is enough to make me weak. One glance into your blue eyes and I would crumble and splinter into a thousand pieces on your floor. One look into mine, and your hands would be in my hair before I could even whisper “hello.” What a strange story to tell with someone and give to the world in melodies and poems. The tale of two souls that found each other in this lifetime, but cannot yet handle the implications of what that means. I’m sure I will find you again in the next life. Will we finally have atoned for whatever we’ve done, and get it right? A lifetime of breathing kisses down your neck sounds like a wonderful reprieve from whatever the hell this is. Suddenly our conversation doesn’t feel much like closure anymore.
-a. f. j.















