A Thorn In A Letter

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A Thorn In A Letter 

There is a letter that sits atop my heart, but is hidden in a drawer. A letter of love that was stained with my tears upon a broken heart and drying veins. I wrote with passion though we were nothing more than thorns to flesh. But each thorn holds a rose, does it not? But we never planted our roots in the same garden. My fear soured what could have been, leading us, never to bloom. And in the shadows of my whiskey filled nights.

Where my heart would slumber and my tears would bleed. I found myself, with ink in hand spilling words of regret, of romance, fantasy, and rage. And along this letter came a weeping heart, holding a tainted bud that grew ill before the summer. Only to wilt upon futile attempts to make us whole. But winter came, suffocating any hope for a dream. Bringing a frozen tundra of empty mountains that grew stale to the eye.

They became hidden in the dismal view of my pocketed heart. Locked away in a box and I tossed the key to the wild oceans of suffering. And their, in the ocean sank my heart and I felt myself become fractured in the opening of my soul. I ruptured the veins of love and found the murder of myself upon my fantasy. Delusional was I, fabricating hope in something that was bitten, poisoned from the start.

Left to drain to the rivers of the forgotten and be nothing but memories to the tongue. Only to speak of them when silence consumes my breath. The cold nights, the rain, the empty streets that lay at my view, I think, of nothing but you.

I linger like a child waiting for the attention of his mother, but your hand
never reaches beyond the shadows. Only to find myself alone among my words, my tears. And I am restrained in my actions to express my willingness to love. For I still foolishly put you upon the stars I see every night.

And this letter I wrote, with all the flowing of my thoughts, my heart. Be it the raging of flames, the bitter coldness of winter, or the softness summer, and the kisses of your lips. I speak as if some day the world will change, and I will find myself lost in the presence of your soul.

And though I know this is but a jesters thinking, Still, it dwells in the hidden shelves of my heart. And still, I hear its ink whispering to me as if it is your voice coming from the pale envelope that sits alone, buried in my home.

But I know, I am but a drunken fool waiting on a fairy tale that was never written.

Sometimes love seems to stain our hearts like spilt wine upon white sheets. 

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