in my final letter to you:

the curtains have long fallen, closing this tragicomic play, and in (somewhat) bittersweet hindsight, i now understand that we were not ready for each other, no matter how much we wished we were. our bones have not been rattled by enough storms, skin not torn by enough gravel. to fly free into dysthymic clouds of muted sorrow is the most fitting of favours we can do for each other after the storm; to go out and feel the wind running through our hair, dig our toes into raw earth and take pieces of the universe to make one with our own souls — we need to live before we can love. it’s almost been two years since our gazes could meet only in fragments of mirrors, and i do not have a doubt that your wings have already seen waters and skies from faraway lands. but all this time i have refused to leave the rusty cage of our history, keeping my wings withdrawn until i see you once again. until i knew that we were ready to take off together, believing that i was ahead of times. but today, i promise, i am going to soar out of imprisonment; i pray that i am going to grow everywhere i land like seeds of wildflowers, to take sips of every lake i overpass; in hopes that once god knows i’ve lived, that the universe is inside me and no longer outside, i will once again see your face again in a crowd, when i take my bow with great poise—poise one gains when they have witnessed and swallowed the world.

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