No one writes love letters anymore.
I can’t say that I don’t regret anything since we’ve gone our separate ways; I regret what could have been, but I have no regrets about what it was.
It’s always hard to write of love.
Love is that one glimmering grain of sand that you stop for when you walk along the shore.
Love’s reasons are as infinite as every grain of sand that goes in sand castles. And all that jazz, whatever it is you do to tug at heart strings, be it books or movies or dinner dates. Yet when the waves come crashing in, all you’re left with are memories, maybe even pictures, of that glimmering castle.
Most of all, you’re left with the thought that once upon a time, a palace stood in that bit of shore. An empire that lorded over seas and mountains, of a lovestruck King and his loving Queen. Once upon a time, love ruled, love reigned.
It’s always hard to write of love. Your lasting memories of love may be of smiles and laughs and joys, but your memory of love lost will always be of sadness.
… the love letters go so many times, maybe to the point of nausea when read aloud. Your eyes smiled so many times before, but the last I saw of those eyes were the welling of tears. I tried to smile and stay strong when I finally let you go that night, but there’s only so much posturing a crushed soul can bear. Not when the taxi plays your song.
You’re left with the thought that once upon a time, the goodbyes were of anticipation and longing. Once upon a time, love was…
Always and forever.
It still is. Why should it be otherwise?
It’s hard to write of love, when it’s out of your hands.
Everything falls into place
… the love letters go: but when everything finally fell, they crashed. You know what they say about picking up the pieces of a broken heart, but I prefer to leave them there. Like the sand in my own sand castles, the tears that fell down my face, or those love letters I wrote but never sent.
They’re all like everything: promises and commitments, so many of them honored and just about as many broken. So much of love and its substitutes: some whole and some shattered, all now but dust by our feet. Like wilted flowers, chocolate boxes thrown away. Gift wrappers and greeting cards and movie tickets still kept around: not for nostalgia, but for memory. (Those nuances always hold a big difference.)
It’s always okay to leave a piece of your heart with someone you loved. It’s okay to smile when you let go. It’s okay to hold on to the tail of someone’s kite as long as you let that kite fly. It’s best to remember the smiles over the tears, the castle over the grain of sand, and that you know who’s on your side in the coming zombie apocalypse.
It took me a while to figure that out.
I can’t say I regret nothing, but what remains of love should be laid on top of the ember of regret. A beacon to light up that dark night some months back. One that burns bright with the knowledge that things began – and ended – with love in mind.
Love’s the reason why we parted.
Love’s not about the letters, but about the love. I guess that’s why no one writes love letters anymore.