Dear Oliver,
You once told me that what keeps you drawn to me is the way we talk—that there's something about my words that keeps pulling you back, no matter how much time passes. Weeks, months, even years might go by, but somehow, we always manage to find our way back to each other, like picking up an unfinished conversation that never really ended. But here's what I can't quite figure out: we're not really talkers, are we? Not in person, not even in messages. So, what did you mean by that? Was it your way of saying I should open up more, speak with the kind of weight and meaning that you're waiting to hear? Or was it just a polite excuse, a way to tell me the silence isn't interesting after all?
You leave me scattered, moving in pieces, trying to fit myself into the spaces your words create. And yet, I can't seem to pin down what you like, what you mean to say, or even what you want from me. You never make things clear, and maybe I understand why—maybe I've never been brave enough to ask you outright, to demand clarity in a place where I've never truly belonged. I'm a nomad in your life, wandering aimlessly, knowing there's no destination for me to settle.
But indulge me, just this once—humor the longing heart that keeps me tethered to you. Tell me, did I ever fluster you the way you do me? Because you do, without even trying. Everything you are, everything you do, keeps me captivated, making me forget the weight of this world. You see, my definition of paradise isn't some distant, faraway dream. It's simple, painfully so—it's the space between your arms, the one place I've never truly been, yet the only place I've ever wanted to call home.
With love,
Mori
YOU ARE READING
the Sum of it all
PoetryIt's a collection of chaos, a mess of emotions spilled onto pages that were never meant to be read. The letters I could never send, each one holding pieces of a heart too afraid to lay itself bare. The love I could have given, if only I'd been brave...
