Katherine Brooke Writes

Someone said, “I’m slowly working on

falling out of love with him.”

And

I thought of you.

Of course. You plague my thoughts.

You’re burned into my being.

Painful and Permanent.

I think of you when I listen to Indie music,

driving through winding suburbs.

I stare at the road ahead and

pretend that you’re sitting next to me,

Watching.

You were always watching.

Observing.

I wonder what thoughts stirred in that beautiful

mind of yours.

I miss the touch of your hand against mine,

the feeling of your arms around me.

Your voice.

Your gaze.

I have a confession.

I’ve been in love with you.

Very terribly.

Very painfully.

Very foolishly.

It’s miserable. Wretched. A horrible mistake.

I tried distracting myself with suitors.

But at the end of the night,

I thought of your forbidden lips on mine.

What a wicked truth.

Maybe to you,

I was a wounded, feral animal to be taken

care of in the yard

but never brought in the house where you sleep.

I never knew what it felt like for a heart to ache

so literally until I met you.

My heart mourns for you,

mourns for a love that never truly existed.

Your name rolls off my tongue like vomit.

Vile.

Necessary.

Natural.

Oh my, how many girls have written love letters to you.

But this is a falling-out-of-love letter.

And to reminisce on perhaps a one-sided love

that will become nothing more than

an Indie song on the radio,

an imprint on a car seat,

a forgotten photo.

Or a dream of your eyes in the moonlight.

But I fear that a part of me will always sit waiting

for that Indie song to play on the radio

with the feel of your touch on mine.

Because you put me through hell.

But heaven seems boring without you.

But deep down, I know you never loved me at all.

So I keep this letter hidden in the basement

and continue loving you from afar.

Let’s be honest.

Falling out of love doesn’t exist.