The once neatly enveloped letter is crumpled in my hand. With rage, disbelief, remorse or unbearable grief, it is hard to tell.
The water in my eyes, a reflection of you laughing with him.
I thought I loved your laughter, but I'm not sure anymore because right now, it's like a needle piercing my body.
My legs retracting, my steps unsteady, my heart burdened with the new discovery, I fist my hand, the crisp white envelope—creased and wrinkled.
I look at you one more time, long and slow. My eyes boring into your skull to meet yours. But you're too engrossed to spare me a glance. Not even a glance.
Turning around, I step forward to never look back again. My hand moves to wipe the stray tear that escaped my failed effort of swallowing all the grief-stained water when the pointed edges of the mess of an envelope dig into my palm demanding my attention.
I slowly open it, with a rueful smile, straightening the creases that'll forever stay.
The poem I wrote, the words I carved, words oozing love, tenderness and everything pure. A poem full of expressions, or perhaps a confession obscured.
Breathing out a sigh, I let go of the ill-thoughts and the letter in my hand.
But I hold that love in my heart, the heart that had been whole, but now full of holes.
(Excerpt from The Words Never Written).
