This is my rendition of a 15th Century Love Letter hence my title Post Pangea.
Sooner or later I will have to find something else to take my mind off of you. Whatever it is, I hope it hurts just as much. This, my very last love letter to you, hurts enough for now.
Here I sit drinking water, preparing for 90 minutes in a 105 degree room where I will punish my body to the point of exhaustion and feel pain like never before. The pain stills that bird in my ribcage and allows me time to be inside my own mind alone. It is the only time I have where I can resist thinking of you.
Whatever else can be said for us in the long road of this love, I will say that I’ve never stopped loving you. I will die loving you as fiercely as I ever have, as passionately as I ever have, where tendrils of pain creep up my spine and into my ribcage, choking the very breathe from my body. That love has been enough to carry me this far and it will have to do for me if my future is without you.
That is how I feel you, still. I will have to adapt to the empty feeling of “without you”- I wish for the gentle rise and fall of my chest as I try to have you with me, sobbing with that a relief that which I will never know. Instead I just lose myself in the void my heart has without its counter part.
I keep telling myself that this is going subside though I am well aware it will not. Tomorrow will come and I will have to adjust. I will have to force myself to walk and I know it won’t be easy. I hope reading this is hard for you, half of love is pain. I try to inhale profoundly, but my breath is interrupted. I can feel my insides speak softly to my soul. I allow that voice to take me over. The sound of your voice is faint now. This is so hard on me. I have to hold on because I know it will hurt more and longer before it ever goes away. Still, I am afraid of becoming numb to this pain and learning to live without you.
The thin streams of dull sunlight filtering through my cracked blinds have discovered my bed again cold and wanting. I press my eyelids and I think to myself, "God If you can hear me, take my life, take my limbs, take my sanity, take anything but please, don’t take my love."
My bed remains discontent even with my soothing promise of a peaceful sleep tonight. My weight sinks into the cold, buckling softness and huddles trembling beneath stiff sheets. My feelings take their time to make me miserable, prodding constantly at my insides, twisting me even as I attempt futilely to drift into sleep, stirring me even in my slumber, and lacing my pillow with visions that strain and buckle my overworked dream catcher. Thoughts peel my words from my body. Their pages ripping in their tumble until they lay incomplete, jagged, and bare like I.
I remain at a loss of what to do to calm my savage mind. My feelings have their own entity and they threaten me and stand poised to do me more harm, warranting that their demands are not met. You have made it quite clear that you have no interest in them, for they have neither the weight nor the parts to make you surrender. So please, I beg you hurry, back; soothe this wound for it hurts and it longs to be sutured with your love again. I have yet to sleep since you have gone. My feelings are anxious and vehement. Bring your body to warm them, your weight to soften them, your arms to defend them and me from their next assault. I fear what evil they have in store for me while you are gone.
Is this all too superfluous for you, I’m sorry for my shrewish tone. It was an unpleasant discovery that I stumbled upon when I lost you. Have I lost you yet? I don't want my wounds to fester. I’m afraid they will and I thought you should know the ice you left in my heart has made me frigid and numb, but the wound remains open and hurtful. My thoughts plan the demise of our love and I will suffer a great deal more if my wound heals from lack of being able to love you. So in return I offer you my words. They, and I, are yours. This is my very last love letter to you. It hurts enough for now.
** I think this may become my new book.
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