I’m not sure where your final resting place will be. Currently, you’re living in the envelope you came in. I was warned, about you. Not to read them right away when I received them. But to read them by myself, in private. Somewhere safe.
But I don’t plan on reading you. Of course, I am curious and more then a little hesitant to pry open your carefully folded edges, revealing whatever your words are. I can tell that it was hand written, with you favorite ink by the paper’s texture.
Why? You might ask. They came from someone you love?
I don’t need to know what those letters say. I’m sorry, ink. I’ve spent the last hundred and twenty days in a mental battle with my heart, and my brain. I’ve spent the last three months organizing my feelings and accepting that the connection I have between your creator, and what sits in my hand will never be the same, and I don’t want it to be. I’ve worked hard to get here. I’ve worked hard to ignore my roots. To allow them to dry up, and snap away. Leaving nothing, but some dirt behind. I’ve worked as hard as you did, when you decided to write them, I’m sure.
So my dearest letters, thank you for trying, but I will never be ready for you. Do you want to be stored away to collect dust from my roots, or burned along side of my pain?
The choice is yours.
Makes one wonder though, how many of my letters never got read?