Since you won't talk to me anyone, I guess I'll write a fictitious letter to you. It would've been nice to have had a two-sided conversation, but this imaginary postcard will have to suffice.
I want to start by saying it was all my shit. I know- that's not the most delicate of prose, but it most perfectly encapsulates everything that happened in our last conversations together (or more accurately, to the unanswered texts I sent you).
You wanted space. I fell back into my pattern of Ms. Fix-it. Didn't give you enough time to breathe. You pulled away further. I fearfully clung... to something that was no longer there.
I saw promise in your eyes, of a future that I had yet to imagine. I heard allusions of your admiration for me, through the tunefulness of your laugh. I felt a warm and constant ease from your unwavering patience and presence.
Well, I suppose I should have seen this coming.
We talked about our communication styles and the way we solve conflicts. You said that you run away. I said that I run towards. We both thought that those patterns were behind us now, but perhaps we were wrong.
When I think of you now, I become angry. It's not a blue-flamed rage, fiery hatred, or anything like that. To be honest, I don't even think it's pointed toward you. Maybe it's toward the universe, or maybe myself.
I just wish I had been more careful with my heart, I suppose.