*Dear, I write to you
because I thought of you.
Truth is, I write to you,
but I wish I could stop thinking of you.
How have you been, my love?
If I even still have the right to call you that…
Who do you talk to now?
That charming life you have without me—
is it as real as it seems?
Or did you learn how to lie well too?
Sometimes I wonder…
all this love I feel for you—
are you worthy of it, even after you left?
After you slipped out the back door
like something insignificant you chose to forget.
I think anyone
I told our story to
would answer with a quick, dry “no”…
But me—
well, I’m the one who feels it.
And it was the only real thing I ever knew.
I guess that’s why I hold on—
it was the first time
I felt alive.
Most people would call me an idiot now.
But I’m not an idiot…
love, on the other hand,
is ridiculous when it meets logic.
There are people who truly say
that love is ridiculous.
They’re always the first to fall blindly.
I was one of them.
You were sudden when you arrived…
and just as sudden when you left.
Sometimes I come close
to telling you everything I still feel,
but then I remember it was you
who left me here, bleeding,
right when I had finally found the sunlight.
Somehow…
I wish I could tear you from my skin.
I wish my poems
didn’t have you as their destination anymore…
But I can’t erase the past.
And if I could go back—
even knowing the bitter ending—
I would do it all again.
In every life,
in every timeline,
in any absurd probability
we used to pretend we understood…
I would still fall in love with you.
In the end,
you killed me once—
and still,
I would let it happen again.
You know…
I think the most painful part of all this
isn’t just that you left,
nor the silence that stayed,
nor this absence that keeps breathing inside me—
it’s knowing
that even after everything,
if you knocked on my door right now…
with that same look in your eyes,
I would open it.
No questions.
No defense.
No dignity left.
Because deep down…
maybe I really am an idiot.
Or maybe I’ll just love you
until every fiber of my body
is reduced to nothing…
Do you understand?
I’m not the idiot—
love is.
Maybe my body and soul still call your name in the dark nights…
and during the day, they chew on everything alone, in silence.
Ah, my love…
Sometimes I wish you would come back—
if not to love me,
then to haunt me.
If not to promise anything,
then at least to make me bleed…
because the worst part of all this
isn’t the pain you left—
it’s this emptiness too clean,
this silence where you used to be the noise,
this absence that doesn’t hurt enough
to make me hate you.
So come back…
even if it’s just
to finish destroying me properly.
At least say it to my face—
that your “I love you” was false,
that my damned feelings meant nothing to you.
Come back and do it right!
Go on— I’m waiting for you to kill me.
Don’t leave me here dying,
bleeding alone.
Have the decency
to kill me properly.
Because then, at least,
I can stop pretending
that I survived you.
And finally admit—
I am…
dead.*
**To:Unknown**

thats great! Im really glad that i could express this well thank you so much for the review
