Letters For Sebastian

We Loved. Deeply. Ruptured. Broken.

So much so that we are left staring at the roof above our heads, at plain, dark, morning, way before the sun even dares show it's beauty, it's glow, the little light we have left in our lives.

With this much pain in the hollowness of our chest, what else to do but write.

Indeed, at three in the morning, shaping rhymes in our minds: past, last, love, cove, pain, main, lust, cost...

Yes, it is not the appropriate time to be lost, obsessed with explaining how we feel, maybe not in the present time, but maybe in a photograph. This photograph filled with memories, with feelings and emotions, filled with the liveliness of those moments that we can no longer experience, for they are gone. Yet, we try. We try so hard to re-live those moments that released the hormones in our brains that made us feel like there was an entire galaxy in our hands, since we believed, apparently, we were gods of some sorts. Yes dear: gods. We loved like if it was us in command of our hearts, and as if we managed every single step of this game, this non-victorious play. We thought the world was in our hands, making mistakes beyond mistakes, and building lies as if we were building castles. Maybe that's is why we lost so miserably.

But why WE? You and me? You and I have no bond, our stories (even though intermixed, separated by point of views, by lovers, by experiences, by lives) have nothing to do with us, with you and me. Yet here I am, creating, at three in the morning, enchantments, magic, that one thing called: poetry.

Is in there we are together, is in there where I am yours, it is there where you are mine, it is there where our stories take place.

It is there where our story BEGINS.