You're The Yellow Bird That I've Been Waiting For

Fifty.

My dearest you,

 Does a love letter always have to be filled with happy and beautiful words? I don’t think it does. I used to, once upon a time, and I always wrote out these splendid retellings of the joy within me. Eventually, life takes a turn where you still find yourself loving someone, but there isn’t as much joy as there once was in your heart. I know that is where I am now. Sometimes, I have beautiful things to tell you, but most days, I find myself just being as honest as I can be. I find that I have so many things to tell you that come from this beating heart of mine, but these things are just not as beautiful as they once were. I suppose it’s because I love you differently now. I never meant to, I never wanted to. But day after day, when nothing changes, and I am left unsatisfied, wanting more, it’s hard to feign feelings that have dissipated.

 I still have that swelling in my chest that moves up to that spot in my throat when I think of all of those beautiful days we shared, lying in the grass, counting the clouds until they turned into stars. It is not that those feelings were not real for me, for they were the most real thing I have ever experienced, it is just that the look in your eyes changed from brightest possible gaze to one that was dull, to one that was indifferent.

Do you remember holding me so long ago as I told you my fears? I told you my worst fear was the feeling of indifference. And now, look what has become of us. You say words to me that contain only emptiness, and your skin does not touch mine anymore, not even while we sleep. No matter how much closer I try to move towards you, I can never reach your body with mine.

 It is these kinds of letters that I only know how to write now.

 Love,

Your Yellow Bird