I’ve written this letter a thousand times over, each one facing the same fate as the last. I’ll burn this sheet of paper and spread the ashes of it as if it were a cremated corpse. The rotten corpse of a love that has bloomed from the dark pits of my soul, a love that has rooted itself in me, that has taken over my life. The same moribund love that drags on every day and lives on a short breath that you gave it, a love that was never meant to exist.
     I love you with a broken type of love. I love you and you have no idea that I do; no idea that I am withering away in agony; no idea that I am incapable of seeing my life without you in it. I need you as if you were a component of my body, as if you were oxygen, as if you were light.
     I want to want to stop loving you but I’m afraid that the numbness that comes with your absence will be the end of my sanity. You know you’re lost in love when a person drives you madly sane and you know there’s no way of finding your way back when that makes sense.
     You came into my life like a storm, bringing havoc with each step you took towards my heart. Unknowingly, you made a home there, and after the rain and the winds; the hail and the thunder, something happened to the unsound depths of my being. There was hope, a new hope that grew in vain. A new hope that made a politician’s promise that would give me you.
     I want this to be the last letter. I want to be okay with having you, even if it’s not in the way I wish I did. I need to be happy, because I can no longer live like this. Yet, I will keep wondering what would happen if you read this, if you ever found out how infatuated I am with you. After all, my dear, you will always be my greatest what if.