Dearest,
maybe I am foolish to believe that gone does not mean too far, and goodbyes do not mean forgotten. And maybe I am naive to hope that when you are the you that you want hope and deserve to be, you will still want to look at me the way I know you can.
You closed the door tonight, eye to eye and all, but I cannot believe it was meant to be such a short story dream sequence. That would be its own tragedy, and one less poetic than most. And though I hope the fates or flukes will bring us more sunny days, I cannot find faith.
Truly,
Me.
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