Things used to be easier when letters were sent physically. Sure, it would take longer, and there might be the off chance it wasn’t delivered.
But at the same time, you wouldn’t know if they had left your message unread.
Somehow, the little red notification under every message I send is more painful the longer it goes on.
Will everything I send you remain unread?
I was fresh out of the package,
and you burned me with your influence.
Fed me your lines and your rhymes,
All in perfect time and cadence.
You marked me with your ways,
and your faults,
so that whenever I do anything,
I am reminded of you.
Your rhymes and your cadences,
all getting stuck in my head as they are tattooed on my skin.
Sometimes,
the only way to heal is to break,
shatter until I can’t hear your melody anymore.
Break and twist until I can no longer fit in your machine.
Where have I been all your life? I’ve been there, but not there entirely. When I was born you were nearly thirty and had already lived so much life without me.
We had a few years together, just you and I, but I was too young to remember them. You hold the secret to what my first word was, where I took my first steps, and how I was potty trained. You hold so many secrets, but I never got to ask you about any of it.
Those secrets went with you when you left us and I can’t help but lament the things I’ll never know.
I’ve got 100 resolutions but none of them are what I want to know from you.
Our time together was never resolved. We didn’t have the resolutions I wanted.
We’ll never know each other as well as we wanted.
The photograph is old and faded, but she can see that they love each other. The photograph from years ago, and she doubts her parents would even recognize themselves after all the years.
Time is a bitch.
